UBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


) 


'4/^  ;  ^  :,'.^L^^ 


POEMS 


OF 


AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


•v 


POEMS 


AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM 


CHOSEN    BY 


J.  BRANDER    MATTHEWS 


NEW-YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1882 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 

Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 

Our  lines  to  a  plebeian  race  ? 

Roundhead  and  Cavalier/ 

Dumb  are  those  names,  erewhile  in  battle  loud  ; 
Dream-footed,  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear; 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  '/ 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 

For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 

Tell  us  not  of  Plantagcnets, 

Hapsburgs,  and  GuelpJis,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  -victor  in  a  border  brawl ! 

How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 

Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 

With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets! 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

An  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  present  collection 
to  gather  together  the  patriotic  poems  of  America, 
those  which  depict  feelings  as  well  as  those  which 
describe  actions,  since  these  latter  are  as  indicative  of 
the  temper  of  the  time.  It  is  a  collection,  for  the 
most  part,  of  old  favorites,  for  Americans  have  been 
quick  to  take  to  heart  a  stirring  telling  of  a  daring 
and  noble  deed ;  but  these  may  be  found  to  have 
gained  freshness  by  a  grouping  in  order.  The 
arrangement  is  chronological  so  far  as  it  might  be, 
that  the  history  of  America  as  told  by  her  poets  should 
be  set  forth.  Here  and  there  occur  breaks  in  the 
story,  chiefly  because  there  are  fit  incidents  for  song 
which  no  poet  has  fitly  sung  as  yet. 

The  poems  have  been  printed  scrupulously  from  the 
best  accessible  text,  and  they  have  not  been  tinkered  in 
Jmy  way,  though  some  few  have  been  curtailed  slightly 
for  the  sake  of  space.  In  a  few  cases,  "where  the 


viii  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

whole  poem  has  not  fallen  within  the  scope  of  this 
volume,  only  a  fragment  is  Jiere  given.  When  this 
has  been  done,  it  is  pointed  out.  Brief  notes  have 
been  prefixed  to  many  of  the  poems,  making  plain  tJie 
occasion  of  their  origin,  and  removing  any  chance 
obscurity  of  allusion. 

The  editor  takes  pleasure  in  expressing  his  thanks 
to  the  friends  who  have  aided  him,  and  especially  to 
Mr.  Henry  Gallup  Paine,  who  has  given  invaluable 
help  in  research  and  in  the  correction  of  the  text.  He 
desires  also  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to  the 
authors  zuho  have  kindly  answered  his  appeals,  and 
to  the  publishers  who  have  given  permission  to  make 
use  of  copyright  matter.  To  Messrs.  HougJiion, 
Mifflin  &  Co.  in  particular  arc  his  obligations  heavy, 
since  his  task  would  have  been  hopeless  had  they 
denied  him  the  privilege  of  borrowing  from  the  works 
of  the  many  American  poets  for  whom  they  publish. 

y.  B.  M. 

ATna-  York,  November,  1882. 


TABLE   OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BOSTON, l 

Ralph   Waldo  Emerson. 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE, 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  LEXINGTON        .         .         .        .         15 

Sidney  Lanier. 

HYMN,          .....  .        .         19 

Ralph   Waldo  Emerson. 

TlCONDEROGA, 21 

V.  B.    Wilson. 

GRANDMOTHER'S       STORY       OF       BUNKER-HILL 

BATTLE, 25 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

WARREN'S  ADDRESS, 41 

John  Pierpoint. 

THE  OLD  CONTINENTALS, 43 

Guy  Humphrey  McMaster. 
NATHAN  HALE,     ...  ...        46 

Francis  Miles  Finch. 


x  TABLE   OF  CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

BATTLE  OF  TRENTON, 50 

Anonymous. 

THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL,  53 

Will  Carlcton. 
MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH,        ...        58 

William  Collins. 
SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN,  ....        63 

William  Culkn  Bryant. 
THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  COWPENS,           ...         67 

Thomas  Dunn  English. 
To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICANS  WHO  FELL 

AT  EUTAW,         .         .        .        .        .        .        80 

Philip  Frencau. 

PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE,       ...         83 

James  Gates  Percival. 
THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER,     ....        87 

Francis  Scott  Key. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS,         ...        90 
Thomas  Dunn  English. 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG, 102 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 
OLD  IRONSIDES, 106 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
MONTEREY, 108 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD,       .        .        .        .no 
Theodore  O'ffara. 

How  OLD  JOHN  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY,      116 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 
APOCALYPSE,         .        .         .         .         .        .        .127 

Richard  Real/. 

SCOTT  AND  THE  VETERAN, 131 

Bayard  Taylor. 

THE  PICKET  GUARD, 135 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 

THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD,          .        .        .       138 
James  Russell  Lowell. 

BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC,       .         .         .       145 
Julia   Ward  Howe. 

AT  PORT  ROYAL, 147 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

READY, 153 

Phoebe  Carey. 

THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME, 155 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

How  ARE  You,  SANITARY  ? 157 

Bret  Harte. 

SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIERS, 159 

Charles  G.  H alpine. 


xii  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

JONATHAN  TO  JOHN, 161 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

THE  CUMBERLAND, 168 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

THE  OLD  SERGEANT, 171 

Forceythe  Willson. 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT, 181 

Henry  Howard  Bwwnell. 

KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES, 198 

Ednmnd  Clarence  Stedman. 

AFTER  ALL, •      201 

William  Winter. 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER, 203 

George  H.  Boker. 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE, 205 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

FREDERICKSBURG, 209 

Thomas  BaiJey  Aldrich. 

Music  IN  CAMP, 210 

John  R.  Thompson. 

KEENAN'S  CHARGE, 215 

George  Parsons  Lathrop. 

THE  BLACK  REGIMENT, 218 

George  H.  Boker. 


TABLE   OF  CONTENTS.  xiii 

PAGE 

JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG,       ....       222 
'  Bret  Harte. 

TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER, 228 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,        .        .         .        .        .        .231 

F.  A .  Bartleson. 

THE  BAY  FIGHT,  .  233 

Henry  Howard  Brownell. 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE, 257 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 

SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA,          .        .        .      261 
Samuel  H.  M.  Byers. 

THE  SONG  OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY,         .        .        .      264 
Charles  G,  Halpinc. 

O  CAPTAIN!  MY  CAPTAIN!          ....       268 
Walt  Whitman. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN, 270 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY,          ....       274 
Francis  Miles  Finch. 

THE  SHIP  OF  STATE, 278 

Henry   Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BOSTON. 

SlCUT   PATRIBUS,    SIT    DEUS    NO15IS. 

Dec.   1 6,  This  poem  was  read  in  Faneuil  Hall,  on    the  Centen- 

nial  Anniversary  of  the  "Boston  Tea-party,"  at 
which  a  band  of  men  disguised  as  Indians  had 
quietly  emptied  into  the  sen  the  taxed  tea-chests  of 
three  British  ships. 

THE  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 
Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 
Took  Boston  in  its  arms ; 

The  men  of  yore  were  stout  and  poor, 
And  sailed  for  bread  to  every  shore. 

And  where  they  went  on  trade  intent 

They  did  what  freemen  can, 
Their  dauntless  ways  did  all  men  praise, 
The  merchant  was  a  man. 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade, — 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 


BOSTON. 

The  waves  that  rocked  them  on  the  deep 

To  them  their  secret  told; 
Said  the  winds  that  sung  the  lads  to  sleep, 
"  Like  us  be  free  and  bold  !  " 

The  honest  waves  refuse  to  slaves 
The  empire  of  the  ocean  caves. 

Old  Europe  groans  with  palaces, 

Has  lords  enough  and  more;  — 
We  plant  and  build  by  foaming  seas 
A  city  of  the  poor;  — 

For  day  by  day  could  Boston  Bay 
Their  honest  labor  overpay. 

We  grant  no  dukedoms  to  the  few, 
We  hold  like  rights  and  shall;  — 
Equal  on  Sunday  in  the  pew, 
On  Monday  in  the  mall. 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sa:l, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 


BOSTON. 

The  noble  craftsmen  we  promote, 

Disown  the  knave  and  fool; 
Each  honest  man  shall  have  his  vote, 
Each  child  shall  have  his  school. 
A  union  then  of  honest  men, 
Or  union  nevermore  again. 


The  wild  rose  and  the  barberry  thorn 
Hung  out  their  summer  pride 

Where  now  on  heated  pavements  worn 
The  feet  of  millions  stride. 


Fair  rose  the  planted  hills  behind 
The  good  town  on  the  bay, 

And  where  the  western  hills  declined 
The  prairie  stretched  away. 

What  care  though  rival  cities  soar 
Along  the  stormy  coast: 


BOSTON. 

Perm's  town,  New  York,  and  Baltimore, 
If  Boston  knew  the  most! 

They  laughed  to  know  the  world  so  wide ; 

The  mountains  said:  "Good-day! 
We  greet  you  well,  you  Saxon  men, 
Up  with  your  towns  and  stay ! " 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade,  - 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

"  For  you,"  they  said,  "  no  barriers  be, 

For  you  no  sluggard  rest; 
Each  street  leads  downward  to  the  sea, 
Or  landward  to  the  West." 

O  happy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Whose  roads  lead  everywhere  to  all ; 

Than  thine  no  deeper  moat  can  be, 
No  stouter  fence,  no  steeper  wall ! 

Bad  news  from  George  on  the  English  throne 
"  You  are  thriving  well,"  said  he ; 


BOSTON. 

"  Now  by  these  presents  be  it  known, 
You  shall  pay  us  a  tax  on  tea ; 

'T  is  very  small, —  no  load  at  all, — 
Honor  enough  that  we  send  the  call." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Boston,  "  good  my  lord, 

We  pay  your  governors  here 
Abundant  for  their  bed  and  board, 

Six  thousand  pounds  a  year. 
(Your  highness  knows  our  homely  word,) 
Millions  for  self-government, 
But  for  tribute  never  a  cent." 

The  cargo  came  !    and  who  could  blame 

If  Indians  seized  the  tea, 
And,  chest  by  chest,  let  down  the  same 
Into  the  laughing  sea  ? 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 

The  townsmen  braved  the  English  king, 
Found  friendship  in  the  French, 


BOSTON. 

And  Honor  joined  the  patriot  ring 
Low  on  their  wooden  bench. 

O  bounteous  seas  that  never  fail ! 

O  day  remembered  yet ! 
O  happy  port  that  spied  the  sail 
Which  wafted  Lafayette! 

Pole-star  of  light  in  Europe's  night, 
That  never  faltered  from  the  right. 

Kings  shook  with  fear,  old  empires  crave 

The  secret  force  to  find 
Which  fired  the  little  State  to  save 

The  rights  of  all  mankind. 

But  right  is  might  through  all  the  world ; 

Province  to  province  faithful  clung, 
Through  good  and  ill  the  war-bolt  hurled, 

Till  Freedom  cheered  and  the  joy-bells  rung. 

The  sea  returning  day  by  day 
Restores  the  world-wide  mart; 


BOSTON. 

So  let  each  dweller  on  the  Bay 
Fold  Boston  in  his  heart, 

Till  these  echoes  be  choked  with  snows, 
Or  over  the  town  blue  ocean  flows. 

Let  the  blood  of  her  hundred  thousands 

Throb  in  each  manly  vein ; 

And  the  wit  of  all  her  wisest, 

Make  sunshine  in  her  brain. 

For  you  can  teach  the  lightning  speech, 
And  round  the  globe  your  voices  reach. 

And  each  shall  care  for  other, 

And  each  to  each  shall  bend, 
To  the  poor  a  noble  brother, 

To  the  good  an  equal  friend. 

A  blessing  through  the  ages  thus 

Shield  all  thy  roofs  and  towers ! 
God  with  the  fathers,  so  with  us, 

Thou  darling  town  of  ours  ! 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


PAUL    REVERE'S    RIDE. 

April  1 8  This  poem  is  the  "Landlord's  Tale,"  the  first  of  the 

177  C.  "  Talcs  of  a  Wayside  Inn." 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-Five : 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal-light, 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 


PAUL   RE VE RE'S  RIDE.  9 

Then  he  said,  Good  night !  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison-bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 


10  PAUL  RE  VERB'S  RIDE. 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the    wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 


PAUL  REVERE 'S  RIDE.  11 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely,  and  spectral,  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 


12  PAUL  REVERES  RIDE. 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 


He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 


PAUL   RE VE RE'S  RIDE.  13 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 


14  PAUL  REVERES  RIDE. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled, — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE   BATTLE    OF   LEXINGTON. 

April    in,  The  skirmish   at  Lexington  and  the  fight  at  Concord 

17715.  closed  all  political  bickering  between  Great  Britain 

and  her  colonies  and  began  the  War  of  the  Revolu 
tion.  The  following  verses  are  a  fragment  of  the 
"Psalm  of  the  West." 

THEN  haste  ye,  Prescott  and  Revere  ! 
Bring  all  the  men  of  Lincoln  here ; 
Let  Chelmsford,  Littleton,  Carlisle, 
Let  Acton,  Bedford,  hither  file  — 
Oh,  hither  file,  and  plainly  see 
Out  of  a  wound  leap  Liberty. 

Say,  Woodman  April !    all  in  green, 
Say,  Robin  April !    hast  thou  seen 
In  all  thy  travel  round  the  earth 
Ever  a  morn  of  calmer  birth  ? 
But  Morning's  eye  alone  serene 
Can  gaze  across  yon  village-green 
To  where  the  trooping  British  run 
Through  Lexington. 


1 6  THE  BATTLE   OF  LEXINGTON. 

Good  men  in  fustian,  stand  ye  still ; 

The  men  in  red  come  o'er  the  hill, 

Lay  down  your  arms,  damned  rebels  /   cry 

The  men  in  red  full  haughtily. 

But  never  a  grounding  gun  is  heard; 

The  men  in  fustian  stand  unstirred; 

Dead  calm,  save  maybe  a  wise  bluebird 

Puts  in  his  little  heavenly  word. 

O  men  in  red!    if  ye  but  knew 

The  half  as  much  as  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  tender  calm 

Each  hand  would  out,  and  every  palm 

With  patriot  palm  strike  brotherhood's  stroke 

Or  ere  these  lines  of  battle  broke. 

O  men  in  red !    if  ye  but  knew 

The  least  of  all  that  bluebirds  do, 

Now  in  this  little  godly  calm 

Yon  voice  might  sing  the  Future's  Psalm  — 

The  Psalm  of  Love  with  the  brotherly  eyes 

Who  pardons  and  is  very  wise  — 


THE  BATTLE   OF  LEXINGTON.  17 

Yon  voice  that  shouts,  high-hoarse  with  ire, 
Fire  ! 

The  red-coats  fire,  the  homespuns  fall : 
The  homespuns'  anxious  voices  call, 
Brother,  art  hurt  ?    and    Where  hit,  John  ? 
And,  Wipe  this  blood,  and  Men,  come  on, 
And  Neighbor,  do  but  lift  my  head, 
And   Who  is  'wounded?      Who  is  dead ? 
Seven  are  killed.     My  God !   my  God! 
Seven  lie  dead  on  the  village  sod. 
Two  Harringtons,  Parker,  Hadley,  Brown, 
Monroe  and  Porter, —  these  are  down. 
Nay,  look  !   stout  Harrington  not  yet  dead! 
He  crooks  his  elbow,  lifts  his  head. 
He  lies  at  the  step  of  his  own  house-door; 
He  crawls  and  makes  a  path  of  gore. 
The  wife  from  the  window  hath  seen,  and  rushed; 
He  hath  reached  the  step,  but  the  blood  hath  gushed; 
He  hath  crawled  to  the  step  of  his  own  house-door, 
But  his  head  hath  dropped :   he  will  crawl  no  more. 
2 


1 8  THE  BATTLE   OF  LEXINGTON. 

Clasp,  Wife,  and  kiss,  and  lift  the  head: 
Harrington  lies  at  his  doorstep  dead. 

But,  O  ye  Six  that  round  him  lay 
And  bloodied  up  that  April  day! 
As  Harrington  fell,  ye  likewise  fell — 
At  the  door  of  the  House  wherein  ye  dwell ; 
As  Harrington  came,  ye  likewise  came 
And  died  at  the  door  of  your  House  of  Fame. 

SIDNEY   LANIER. 


HYMN. 

April    ig,  This  poem  -was  written  to  be  sung  at  the  completion  of 

.  the  Concord  Monument,  April  19,  1836. 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 


20  HYMN. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


TICONDEROGA. 

May    IO  After  the  news  of  Concord  fight,  a  volunteer  expedition 

from  Vermont  and  Connecticut,  under  Ethan  Allen 
and  Benedict  Arnold,  seized  Ticonderoga  and  Crown 
Point,  -whose  military  stores  were  of  great  service. 
From  its  chime  of  bells,  the  French  called  Ticonderoga 
"  Carillon." 

THE  cold,  gray  light  of  the  dawning 
On  old  Carillon  falls, 
And  dim  in  the  mist  of  the  morning 

Stand  the  grim  old  fortress  walls. 
No  sound  disturbs  the  stillness 

Save  the  cataract's  mellow  roar, 
Silent  as  death  is  the  fortress, 
Silent  the  misty  shore. 

But  up  from  the  wakening  waters 
Comes  the  cool,  fresh  morning  breeze, 

Lifting  the  banner  of  Britain, 
And  whispering  to  the  trees 


22  TICONDEROGA. 

Of  the  swift  gliding  boats  on  the  waters 
That  are  nearing  the  fog-shrouded  land, 

With  the  old  Green  Mountain  Lion, 
And  his  daring  patriot  band. 

But  the  sentinel  at  the  postern 

Heard  not  the  whisper  low ; 
He  is  dreaming  of  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 

As  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 
Of  the  starry  eyes  in  Green  Erin 

That  were  dim  when  he  marched  away, 
And  a  tear  down  his  bronzed  cheek  courses, 

'T  is  the  first  for  many  a  day. 

A  sound  breaks  the  misty  stillness, 

And  quickly  he  glances  around ; 
Through  the  mist,  forms  like  towering  giants 

Seem  rising  out  of  the  ground; 
A  challenge,  the  firelock  flashes, 

A  sword  cleaves  the  quivering  air, 
And  the  sentry  lies  dead  by  the  postern, 

Blood  staining  his  bright  yellow  hair. 


TICONDEROGA.  23 

Then,  with  a  shout  that  awakens 

All  the  echoes  of  hillside  and  glen, 
Through  the  low,  frowning  gate  of  the  fortress, 

Sword  in  hand,  rush  the  Green  Mountain  men. 
The  scarce  wakened  troops  of  the  garrison 

Yield  up  their  trust  pale  with  fear; 
And  down  comes  the  bright  British  banner, 

And  out  rings  a  Green  Mountain  cheer. 

Flushed  with  pride,  the  whole  easteni  heavens 

With  crimson  and  gold  are  ablaze; 
And  up  springs  the  sun  in  his  splendor 

And  flings  down  his  arrowy  rays, 
Bathing  in  sunlight  the  fortress, 

Turning  to  gold  the  grim  walls, 
While  louder  and  clearer  and  higher 

Rings  the  song  of  the  waterfalls. 

Since  the  taking  of  Ticonderoga 

A  century  has  rolled  away; 
But  with  pride  the  nation  remembers 

That  glorious  morning  in  May. 


24  TICONDEROGA, 

And  the  cataract's  silvery  music 

Forever  the  story  tells, 
Of  the  capture  of  old  Carillon, 

The  chime  of  the  silver  bells. 

V.  B.  WILSON. 


GRANDMOTHER'S     STORY    OF    BUNKER 
HILL    BATTLE. 

AS   SHE   SAW  IT   FROM   THE   BELFRY. 

June  17, 

1775- 


T 


IS  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty, 
one  remembers 

All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the  times  that 
tried  men's  souls  " ; 

When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when  I  tell  the  Rebel 
story, 

To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they  're  burn 
ing  coals. 

I    had   heard   the   muskets'  rattle   of  the  April  running 

battle ; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats 

still ; 

25 


26         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up 

before  me, 
When   a   thousand   men   lav  bleeding  on  the  slopes  of 

Bunker's  Hill. 

'T  was    a    peaceful    summer's    morning,  when    the    first 

thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and  the 

shore : 
"  Child,"   says   grandma,   "  what  's   the   matter,  what  is 

all  this  noise  and  clatter  ? 
Have   those    scalping  Indian  devils  come  to  murder  us 

once  more  ?  " 

Poor  old  soul!   my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of 

all  my  quaking 
To   hear   her   talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to 

roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter  and 

the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father,  with  their  bullets 

through  his  door. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE.          27 

Then   I    said,  "  No\v,  dear   old   granny,  don't   you   fret 

and  worry  any, 
For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you  whether  this  is 

work  or  play ; 
There   can't   be   mischief  in   it,  so    I  won't  be  gone   a 

minute"  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong 

day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grimacing; 
Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tumbling  half-way  to 

my  heels; 
God    forbid    your   ever    knowing,   when    there  's   blood 

around  her  flowing, 
How  the  lone!;-    helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  household 

feels ' 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping;    and  I  knew  it  was 

the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden  leg 

he  wore. 


28         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

With  a  knot  of  women  round  him, —  it  was  lucky  I  had 

found  him, — 
So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal  marched 

before. 

They  were  making  for  the  steeple, —  the  old  soldier  and 
his  people ; 

The  pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we  climbed  the  creak 
ing  stair, 

Just  across  the  narrow  river  —  O,  so  close  it  made  me 
shiver ! — 

Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but  yesterday  was 
bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who  stood 

behind  it, 
Though    the    earthwork    hid    them    from    us,    and    the 

stubborn  walls  were  dumb : 
Here  were  sister,  wife,  and   mother,  looking  wild   upon 

each  other, 
And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said,  THE 

HOUR   HAS   COME  ! 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE.          29 

The    morning   slowly    wasted,    not    a    morsel    had    we 

tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting  with  the  cannons' 

deafening  thrill, 
When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round  the  rampart  strode 

sedately ; 
It  was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me ;  he  commanded  on 

the  hill. 

Every  woman's   heart    grew   bigger   when   we    saw   his 

manly  figure, 
With    the    banyan    buckled    round    it,    standing    up    so 

straight  and  tall ; 
Like    a    gentleman   of   leisure  who    is    strolling   out  for 

pleasure, 
Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  cannon-shot  he  walked 

around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats' 

ranks  were  forming; 
At    noon    in    marching    order    they    were    moving    to 

the  piers ; 


30         STORY  OF  BUXKER  HILL  BATTLE. 

How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened,  as  we  looked 

far  down  and  listened 
To    the   trampling    and    the    drum-beat    of    the    belted 

grenadiers ! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it  seemed 

faint-hearted), 
In    their    scarlet    regimentals,  with    their   knapsacks    on 

their  backs, 
And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea-fight's 

slaughter, 
Round   the   barges   gliding   onward  blushed  like   blood 

along  their  tracks. 

So   they  crossed   to   the   other  border,  and   again   they 

formed  in  order; 
And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  soldiers, 

soldiers  still: 
The   time   seemed   everlasting   to   us  women    faint    and 

fasting, — 
At  last   they  're   moving,   marching,   marching  proudly 

up  the  hill. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL  BATTLE.          31 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines 

advancing — 
Now  the   front  rank  fires  a  volley  —  they  have   thrown 

away  their  shot; 
For    behind    the    earthwork   lying,   all   the   balls   above 

them  flying, 
Our  people   need  not  hurry;    so  they  wait  and  answer 

not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear 
sometimes  and  tipple), — 

He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French 
war)  before, — 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were 
hearing, — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on  the  dusty  bel 
fry  floor: — 

"  Oh !   fire   away,  ye  villains,  and   earn    King    George's 

shillin's, 
But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  '  rebel '  falls ; 


32         STORY  OF  BUXKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome,  they  're  as  safe 
as  Dan'l  Malcolm 

Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that  you  've  splin 
tered  with  your  balls  !  " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  well-nigh 
breathless  all ; 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  bel 
fry  railing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves 
against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse   (the   air   is   clearer),  they  are  nearer, — 

nearer, —  nearer, 
When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  —  then   a  crash 

—  the  steeple  shakes  — 
The    deadly   truce   is    ended;    the    tempest's    shroud    is 

tended ; 
Like  a  morning  mist   it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud 

it  breaks ! 


STORY  OF  BL'XKER  HILL   BATTLE.          53 

O  the  sight  our  eyes    discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke 

blows  over  ! 
The  red-coats  stretched   in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes 

his  hay  ; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd  is 

flying 
Like    a    billow    that    has    broken    and    is    shivered   into 

spray. 

Then  we  cried,  '•  The  troops  are  routed !   they  are  beat 

—  it  can't  be  doubted  ! 

God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over!" — Ah!  the  grim 
old  soldier's  smile  ! 

"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ? ?<  (we  could  hardly 
speak,  we  shook  so). — 

"Are  they  beaten  ?  Arc  they  beaten  ?  ARE  they  beat 
en  ?'' —  "Wait  a  while." 

O   the   trembling  and   the   terror !    for  too  soon  we  saw 

our  error : 
They  are   baffled,  not    defeated  :    we  have  driven  them 

back  in  vain  ; 

3 


34         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

And  the  columns  that  were  scattered,  round  the  colors 

that  were  tattered, 
Toward    the    sullen    silent     fortress    turn    their    belted 

breasts  again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the  roofs  of  Charles- 
town  blazing ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village ;  in  an  hour  it 
will  be  down  ! 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and 
brimstone  round  them, — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a 
peaceful  town ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn ;   we  can  see  each 

massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked   earth-mound  with  the  slanting 

walls  so  steep. 
Have    our    soldiers    got    faint-hearted,  and    in    noiseless 

haste  departed  ? 
Are   they  panic-struck   and   helpless  ?    Are  they  palsied 

or  asleep  ? 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE.         35 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under !  scarce  a  rod  the 

foes  asunder! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them!    up  the  earthwork 

they  will  swarm  ! 
But    the    words    have    scarce    been    spoken,    when    the 

ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And   a   bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all  the  vengeance 

of  the  storm ! 

So  again,  with  murderous  slaughter,  pelted  backward  to 

the  water, 
Fly  Pigot's   running  heroes   and   the   frightened    braves 

of  Howe; 
And  we    shout,   "  At   last  they  're   done   for,  it  's  their 

barges  they  have  run  for : 
They   are    beaten,   beaten,    beaten ;    and    the    battle  's 

over  now ! " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough  old 

soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we  would 

ask : 


36         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

"Not  sure,"  he  said;  "keep  quiet, —  once  more,  I  guess, 

they  '11  try  it  — 
Here   's     damnation     to     the    cut-throats ! " — then     he 

handed   me   his   flask, 

Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're   looking   shaky ;   have  a  drop  of 

old  Jamaiky ; 
I  'm   afraid   there  '11   be   more  trouble  afore  this  job  is 

done " ; 
So  I   took  one  scorching  swallow;    dreadful  faint  I  felt 

and  hollow, 
Standing  there  from  early  morning  when  the  firing  was 

begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had  watched  a  calm 
clock  dial, 

As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping, —  they  were  creep 
ing  round  to  four, 

When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  forming  with  their 
bagonets  fixed  for  storming : 

It 's  the  death  grip  that's  a  coming, —  they  will  try  the 
works  once  more," 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL  BATTLE.         37 

With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames  behind  them 
glaring, 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they 
come; 

Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  uncoil 
ing-  — 

Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating 
drum  ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I  tell  the  fearful 
story, 

How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork,  as  a  sea 
breaks  over  a  deck; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men  re 
treated, 

With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swimmers 
from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and   painted ;    as  for  me,  they  say 

I  fainted, 
And    the    wooden-legged    old    Corporal    stumped    with 

me  down  the  stair : 


38         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

When-  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the  evening  lamps 

were  lighted, — 
On    the   floor   a   youth  was   lying ;    his  bleeding  breast 

was  bare. 

And  I  heard  through  all  the  flurry,  "  Send  for  WARREN  ! 

hurry  !    hurry  ! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  '11  come  and 

dress  his  wound  ! " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told  its  tale  of  death 

and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened  on  the  dark  and 

bloody  ground. 

Who   the   youth   was,  what   his   name    was,   where   the 

place  from  which  he  came  was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle,  and  had  left  him 

at  our  door, 
He  could  not  speak  to  tell   us;   but  't  was  one  of  our 

brave  fellows, 
As  the   homespun   plaialy  showed   us  which   the  dying 

soldier  wore. 


STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE.          39 

For   they  all   thought   he  was   dying,  as   they  gathered 

'round  him  crying, — 
And    they    said,  "  O,  how    they  '11    miss    him ! "    and, 

"  What  will  his  mother  do  ?  " 
Then,  his  eyelids  just   unclosing  like  a  child's  that  has 

been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "Mother!" and — I  saw  his 

eyes  were  blue. 

—  "Why,    grandma,  how   you're    winking!" — Ah,   my 

child,  it  sets  me  thinking 
Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived 

along ; 
So  we    came   to    know  each    other,  and  I  nursed  him 

like  a — mother, 

Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and  rosy-cheeked, 
and  strong. 

And    we    sometimes    walked    together   in    the    pleasant 
summer  weather ; 

—  "Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?" — Just  your 

own,  my  little  dear, — 


40         STORY  OF  BUNKER  HILL   BATTLE. 

There  's    his    picture    Copley   painted :    we   became   so 

well  acquainted, 
That — in   short,    that  's    why    I  'm    grandma,    and    you 

children  all  are  here ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


WARREN'S    ADDRESS. 

June  17,  Joseph  Warren  was  commissioned  by  Massachusetts  as 

1775,  a  Major-General  three  days  before   the  battle   of 

Bunker  Hill,  at  which  he  fought  as  a  volunteer. 
He  was  one  of  the  last  to  leave  the  field,  and  as  a 
British  officer  in  the  redoubt  called  to  him  to  sur 
render,  a  ball  struck  him  in  the  forehead,  killing 
him  instantly. 

OTAND!  the  ground  's  your  own,  my  braves! 
^     Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What  's  the  mercy   despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle-peal! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel! 

Ask  it, —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you !    they  're  a-fire ! 
And,  before  you,  see 

4* 


42  WARREN'S  ADDRESS. 

Who  have  done  it!  —  From  the  vale 
On  they  come! — And  will  ye  quail?  — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may, — and  die  we  must;- 

But,  O,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell ! 

JOHN  PIERPONT. 


THE    OLD    CONTINENTALS. 

1775  —  The  nucleus  of  the  Continental  Army  was  the  New 

1783.  England  force  gathered  before  Boston,   to  the  com 

mand  of  which  Washington  was  appointed  two  days 
before  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  although  he  ar 
rived  too  late  to  take  part  in  that  fight. 


I 


'N  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  continentals, 
Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles 
From   the  smoky  night   encampment,  bore    the   banner 

of  the  rampant 
Unicorn, 
And    grummer,    grummer,    grummer   rolled   the   roll   of 

the  drummer, 
Through  the  morn ! 

43 


44  THE   OLD   CONTINENTALS. 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires; 
As  the  roar 
On  the  shore, 
Swept  the  strong   battle-breakers   o'er  the    green-sodded 

acres 

Of  the  plain ; 

And    louder,   louder,   louder    cracked    the    black    gun 
powder, 
Cracking  amain! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers ; 

And  the  "  villainous  saltpetre  " 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears ; 

As  the  swift 


THE   OLD   CONTINENTALS.  45 

Storm-drift, 

With    hot     sweeping     anger,    came     the     horse-guards' 
clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 

And  his  broad-sword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And   the    trooper-jackets   redden    at    the    touch    of    the 

leaden 
Rifle-breath ; 

And    rounder,   rounder,   rounder    roared    the    iron   six- 
pounder, 
Hurling  death ! 

GUY  HUMPHREY  MCMASTER. 


NATHAN    HALE. 

Sept.    22,  After  the  retreat  from  Long  Island,  Washington  needed 

1776.  information   as   to   the   British    strength.      Captain 

Nathan  Hale,  a  young  man  of  twenty-one,  volun 
teered  to  get  this.  He  was  taken,  inside  the  enemy's 
lines,  and  hanged  as  a  spy,  regretting  t/iat  he  had 
but  one  life  to  lose  for  his  country. 

TO  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 
A  soldier  marches  by  : 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 

Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 

His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

46 


NATHAN  HALE.  47 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 

He  scans  the  tented  line ; 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine ; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 

It  meets  his  eager  glance ; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 

Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 

On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found ; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 


4-8  NATHAN  HALE. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 
He  listens  to  his  doom ; 

In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 
Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom ; 

But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 
He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 


In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod ; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  God! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree ; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty ; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit- wings  are  free. 


NATHAN  HALE.  49 

But  his  last  words,  his  message- words, 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 

A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 

A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  the  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn ; 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  HALE  shall  burn. 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH. 


BATTLE    OF    TRENTON. 


Dec.  26  This  is  an  anonymous  contemporary  poem  on  the  cross- 

1776.  ing  of  the  Delaware  amid  the  ice,  and  the  capture 

of  the  Hessian   Troops  in   Trenton. 


ON  Christmas-day  in  seventy-six, 
Our  ragged  troops  with  bayonets  fixed, 
For  Trenton  marched  away. 
The  Delaware  see !  the  boats  below ! 
The  light  obscured  by  hail  and  snow ! 
But  no  signs  of  dismay. 

Our  object  was  the  Hessian  band, 
That  dared  invade  fair  freedom's  land, 

And  quarter  in  that  place. 
Great  Washington  he  led  us  on, 
Whose  streaming  flag,  in  storm  or  sun, 

Had  never  known  disgrace. 

5° 


BATTLE   OF  TRENTON.  51 

In  silent  march  we  passed  the  night, 
Each  soldier  panting  for  the  fight, 

Though  quite  benumbed  with  frost. 
Greene,  on  the  left,  at  six  began, 
The  right  was  led  by  Sullivan, 

Who  ne'er  a  moment  lost. 


The  pickets  stormed,  the  alarm  was  spread, 
The  rebels  risen  from  the  dead 

Were  marching  into  town. 
Some  scampered  here,  some  scampered  there, 
And  some  for  action  did  prepare ; 

But  soon  their  arms  laid  down. 

Twelve  hundred  servile  miscreants, 
With  all  their  colors,  guns,  and  tents, 

Were  trophies  of  the  day. 
The  frolic  o'er,  the  bright  canteen 
In  centre,  front,  and  rear  was  seen 

Driving  fatigue  away. 


BATTLE   OF   TRENTON. 

Now,  brothers  of  the  patriot  bands, 
Let  's  sing  deliverance  from  the  hands 

Of  arbitrary  sway. 
And  as  our  life  is  but  a  span, 
Let  's  touch  the  tankard  while  we  can, 

In  memory  of  that  day. 


THE    LITTLE    BLACK-EYED     REBEL. 

Between         The  heroine's  name  was  Mary  Redmond,  and  she  lived 

Sept.  26     1777         in  Philadelphia.    During  the  occupation  of  that  town 

and  by  the  British,  she  was  ever  ready  to  aid  in  the  secret 

Tune  17     1778         delivery  of  the  letters  written  home  by  the  husbands 

and  fathers  fighting  in  the  Continental  Army.      The 

poem     is    taken   from    "  Young  Folks'    Centennial 

Rhymes"  (Harpers,  1876). 

\     BOY  drove  into  the  city,  his  wagon  loaded  down 
•£**     with    food    to    feed    the  people    of   the    British- 
governed  town ; 

And  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  so  innocent  and  sly, 
Was  watching  for  his  coming  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

His    face   looked    broad    and    honest,    his    hands   were 

brown  and  tough, 
The  clothes  he  wore  upon  him  were  homespun,  coarse, 

and  rough; 
But   one    there  was  who  watched  him,  who   long   time 

lingered  nigh, 
And  cast  at  him  sweet  glances  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

53 


54          THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL, 

He  drove  up  to  the  market,  he  waited  in  the  line; 
His  apples  and  potatoes  were  fresh  and  fair  and  fine; 
But  long  and  long  he  waited,  and  no  one  came  to  buy, 
Save   the   black-eyed   rebel,    watching    from   the   corner 
of  her  eye. 

"  Now  who  will  buy  my  apples  ?  "  he  shouted,  long  and 

loud ; 
And  "  Who  wants   my  potatoes  ? "   he   repeated   to   the 

crowd ; 
But  from  all  the  people  round  him  came  no  word  of  a 

reply, 
Save   the  black-eyed   rebel,  answering   from   the  corner 

of  her  eye. 

For  she  knew  that   'neath   the   lining   of   the   coat   he 

wore  that  day, 
Were  long  letters  from  the  husbands  and  the  fathers  far 

away, 
Who  were  fighting  for  the  freedom  that  they  meant  to 

gain  or  die; 
And  a  tear  like  silver  glistened  in  the  corner  of  her  eye. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL.          55 

But  the  treasures  —  how  to  get  them?  crept  the  question 
through  her  mind, 

Since  keen  enemies  were  watching  for  what  prizes  they 
might  find  : 

And  she  paused  a  while  and  pondered,  with  a  pretty 
little  sigh ; 

Then  resolve  crept  through  her  features,  and  a  shrewd 
ness  fired  her  eye. 

So  she  resolutely  walked  up  to  the  wagon  old  and  red ; 
"  May  I  have  a  dozen  apples  for  a  kiss  ?  "  she  sweetly 

said : 
And  the  brown  face  flushed  to  scarlet;  for  the  boy  was 

somewhat  shy, 
And   he   saw  her  laughing   at   him  from  the  corner  of 

her  eye. 

"  You  may  have  them  all  for  nothing,  and  more,  if  you 

want,"  quoth  he. 
"  I  will   have   them,  my  good   fellow,  but  can  pay   for 

them,"  said  she; 


56          THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL. 

And   she   clambered   on   the  wagon,   minding  not  who 

all  were  by, 
With  a  laugh  of  reckless  romping  in  the  corner  of  her 

eye. 

Clinging  round  his  brawny  neck,  she  clasped  her  fingers 

white  and  small, 
And  then  whispered,    "  Quick !  the  letters !    thrust  them 

underneath  my  shawl ! 
Carry  back   again  this   package,  and  be  sure  that  you 

are  spry ! " 
And   she   sweetly  smiled  upon  him  from  the  corner  of 

her  eye. 

Loud   the   motley  crowd  were   laughing  at  the  strange, 

ungirlish  freak, 
And   the   boy  was   scared  and  panting,  and  so  dashed 

he  could  not  speak ; 

And,  "  Miss,  /  have  good  apples,"  a  bolder  lad  did  cry; 
But  she  answered,  "  No,  I  thank  you,"  from  the  corner 

of  her  eye. 


THE  LITTLE   BLACK-EYED  REBEL.          57 

With  the  news  of  loved  ones  absent  to  the  dear  friends 

they  would  greet, 
Searching  them  who  hungered  for  them,  swift  she  glided 

through  the  street. 
"  There   is   nothing  worth   the   doing   that   it   does  not 

pay  to  try," 
Thought   the   little   black-eyed   rebel,  with  a  twinkle  in 

her  eye. 

WILL  CARLETON. 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH. 

June    28,  The  battle  of  Monmouth  was  indecisive,  but  the  Amcri- 

1778.  cans  held  the  field,  and  the  British  retreated  and 

remained  inactive  for  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

ON  the  bloody  field  of  Monrnouth 
Flashed  the  guns  of  Greene  and  Wayne, 
Fiercely  roared  the  tide  of  battle, 

Thick  the  sward  was  heaped  with  slain. 
Foremost,  facing  death  and  danger, 

Hessian,  horse,  and  grenadier, 
In  the  vanguard,  fiercely  fighting, 
Stood  an  Irish  Cannonier. 

Loudly  roared  his  iron  cannon, 

Mingling  ever  in  the  strife, 
And  beside  him,  firm  and  daring, 

Stood  his  faithful  Irish  wife. 
Of  her  bold  contempt  of  danger 

Greene  and  Lee's  Brigades  could  tell, 
58 


MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MONMOUTH.          59 

Every  one  knew  "  Captain  Molly," 
And  the  army  loved  her  well. 


Surged  the  roar  of  battle  round  them, 

Swiftly  flew  the  iron  hail, 
Forward  dashed  a  thousand  bayonets, 

That  lone  battery  to  assail. 
From  the  foeman's  foremost  columns 

Swept  a  furious  fusillade, 
Mowing  down  the  massed  battalions 

In  the  ranks  of  Greene's  Brigade. 

Fast  and  faster  worked  the  gunner, 

Soiled  with  powder,  blood,  and  dust, 
English  bayonets  shone  before  him, 

Shot  and  shell  around  him  burst ; 
Still  he  fought  with  reckless  daring, 

Stood  and  manned  her  long  and  well, 
Till  at  last  the  gallant  fellow 

Dead — beside  his  cannon  fell. 


60         MOLLY  MAGUIRE  AT  MON MOUTH. 

With  a  bitter  cry  of  sorrow, 

And  a  dark  and  angry  frown, 
Looked  that  band  of  gallant  patriots 

At  their  gunner  stricken  down. 
"  Fall  back,  comrades,  it  is  folly 

Thus  to  strive  against  the  foe." 
"  No !    not  so,"  cried  Irish  Molly ; 
"  We  can  strike  another  blow." 


Quickly  leaped  she  to  the  cannon, 

In  her  fallen  husband's  place, 
Sponged  and  rammed  it  fast  and  steady, 

Fired  it  in  the  foeman's  face. 
Flashed  another  ringing  volley, 

Roared  another  from  the  gun ; 
"  Boys,  hurrah  !  "  cried  gallant  Molly, 
"  For  the  flag  of  Washington." 

Greene's  Brigade,  though  shorn  and  shattered, 
Slain  and  bleeding  half  their  men, 


MOLLY  MA  GUI  RE  AT  M  ON  MOUTH.         61 

When  they  heard  that  Irish  slogan, 
Turned  and  charged  the  foe  again. 

Knox  and  Wayne  and  Morgan  rally, 
To  the  front  they  forward  wheel, 

And  before  their  rushing  onset 
Clinton's  English  columns  reel. 

Still  the  cannon's  voice  in  anger 

Rolled  and  rattled  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  there  lay  in  swarms  around  it 
Mangled  heaps  of  Hessian  slain. 
"  Forward !   charge  them  with  the  bayonet ! " 

'Twas  the  voice  of  Washington, 
And  there  burst  a  fiery  greeting 
From  the  Irish  woman's  gun. 

Monckton  falls ;    against  his  columns 
Leap  the  troops  of  Wayne  and  Lee, 

And  before  their  reeking  bayonets 
Clinton's  red  battalions  flee. 

Morgan's  rifles,  fiercely  flashing, 
Thin  the  foe's  retreating  ranks, 


62          MOLLY  MA  GUI  RE  AT  MONMOUTH. 

And  behind  them  onward  dashing 
Ogden  hovers  on  their  flanks. 

Fast  they  fly,  these  boasting  Britons, 

Who  in  all  their  glory  came, 
With  their  brutal  Hessian  hirelings 

To  wipe  out  our  country's  name. 
Proudly  floats  the  starry  banner, 

Monmouth's  glorious  field  is  won, 
And  in  triumph  Irish  Molly 

Stands  beside  her  smoking  gun. 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


SONG   OF  MARION'S   MEN. 

1780—  While  the  British  Army  held  South  Carolina,  Marion 

1781.  and  Sutnter  gathered  bands  of  partisans  and  waged 

a  vigorous  guerilla  warfare  most  harassing  and  de 
structive  to  the  invader. 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery, 
That  little  dread  us  near! 
63 


64  SONG   OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again. 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 


SOA'G   OF  MARION'S  MEN.  65 

And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 
On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
5 


56  SONG   OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 
And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 
And  lay  them  down  no  more 

Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 
For  ever,  from  our  shore. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


THE    BATTLE    OF   THE    COWPENS. 

Jan.    17,  In  1781,  most  of  the  fighting  was  in  the  South,  and  the 

1781.  first  battle  of  importance  was  this,  in  which  Morgan 

defeated  Tarleton.    This  poem  is  taken  from  "Ameri 
can  Ballads"  (Harpers,  1879). 

r  I^O    the    Cowpens    riding    proudly,   boasting    loudly, 

rebels  scorning, 

Tarleton  hurried,  hot  and  eager  for  the  fight ; 
From   the   Cowpens,  sore   confounded,  on  that  January 

morning, 

Tarleton   hurried   somewhat   faster,  fain  to  save  him 
self  by  flight. 

In  the  morn  he  scorned  us  rarely,  but  he  fairly  found 

his  error, 

When  his  force  was  made  our  ready  blows  to  feel ; 
When   his   horsemen  and   his  footmen  fled  in  wild  and 

pallid  terror 

At   the   leaping   of  our  bullets   and  the  sweeping  of 
our  steel. 

67 


68  THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS. 

All    the  day  before  we  fled   them,  and  we  led  them  to 

pursue  us, 
Then    at    night    on    Thickety    Mountain    made    our 

camp ; 
There  we   lay  upon   our   rifles,  slumber  quickly  coming 

to  us, 

Spite   the   crackling   of  our   camp-fires  and   our  sen 
tries'  heavy  tramp. 

Morning  on  the  mountain  border  ranged  in  order  found 

our  forces, 

Ere  our  scouts  announced  the  coming  of  the  foe; 
While    the    hoar-frost    lying    near    us,    and    the    distant 

water-courses, 

Gleamed  like  silver  in  the  sunlight,  seemed  like  silver 
in  their  glow. 

Morgan   ranged   us   there   to   meet   them,  and  to  greet 

them  with  such  favor 
That  they  scarce  would  care  to  follow  us  again ; 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS.  69 

In    the    rear,    the   Continentals — none  were  readier  nor 

braver ; 

In  the  van,  with  ready  rifles,  steady,  stern,  our  mount 
ain  men. 


Washington,  our  trooper  peerless,  gay  and  fearless,  with 

his  forces 

Waiting  panther-like  upon  the  foe  to  fall, 
Formed  upon  the  slope  behind  us,  where,  on  raw-boned 

country  horses, 

Sat  the  sudden-summoned  levies  brought  from  Georgia 
by  M'Call. 

Soon  we  heard  a  distant  drumming,  nearer  coming,  slow 

advancing — 

It  was  then  upon  the  very  nick  of  nine. 
Soon   upon   the   road   from    Spartanburg   we    saw    their 

bayonets  glancing, 

And   the   morning   sunlight  playing  on  their  swaying 
scarlet  line. 


70  THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS. 

In    the    distance    seen    so    dimly,  they  looked    grimly ; 

coming  nearer, 

There  was  naught  about  them  fearful,  after  all, 
Until   some   one  near   me    spoke   in   voice    than  falling 

water  clearer, 

"Tarleton's    quarter    is    the    sword-blade,    Tarleton's 
mercy  is  the  ball." 

Then  the  memory  came  unto  me,  heavy,  gloomy,  of  my 

brother 

Who  was  slain  while  asking  quarter  at  their  hand ; 
Of  that   morning  when  was  driven  forth  my  sister  and 

my  mother 
From  our  cabin  in  the  valley  by  the  spoilers  of  the  land. 

I  remembered  of  my  brother  slain,  my  mother  spurned 

and  beaten, 

Of  my  sister  in  her  beauty  brought  to  shame ; 
Of  the  wretches'  jeers  and  laughter,  as  from  mud-sill  up 

to  rafter 

Of  the  stripped  and  plundered  cabin  leapt  the  fierce, 
consuming  flame. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS.  71 

But    that    memory  had   no    power    there    in    that   hour 

there  to  depress  me  — 
No  !    it  stirred  within  my  spirit  fiercer  ire ; 
And   I    gripped   my  sword-hilt  firmer,  and  my  arm  and 

heart  grew  stronger ; 

And    I    longed    to    meet    the   wronger   on  the  sea  of 
steel  and  fire. 

On  they  came,  our  might  disdaining,  where  the  raining 

bullets  leaden 

Pattered  fast  from  scattered  rifles  on  each  wing; 
Here    and   there  went  down  a  foeman,  and  the  ground 

began  to  redden ; 

And   they  drew  them   back  a  moment,  like  the  tiger 
ere  his  spring. 

Then  said  Morgan,  "  Ball  and  powder  kill  much  prouder 

men  than  George's ; 
On  your  rifles  and  a  careful  aim  rely. 
They  were  trained   in  many  battles — we  in  workshops, 

fields,  and  forges ; 

But  we   have  our  homes  to  fight  for,  and  we  do  not 
fear  to  die." 


72  THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS. 

Though    our    leader's    words   we    cheered    not,   yet   we 

feared  not;    we  awaited, 

Strong  of  heart,  the  threatened  onset,  and  it  came  : 
Up  the  sloping  hill-side  swiftly  rushed  the  foe  so  fiercely 

hated ; 

On  they  came  with   gleaming  bayonet  'mid  the  can 
non's  smoke  and  flame. 

At   their   head   rode    Tarleton   proudly ;    ringing   loudly 

o'er  the  yelling 

Of  his  men  we  heard  his  voice's  brazen  tone ; 
With   his    dark    eyes    flashing    fiercely,    and   his  sombre 

features   telling 

In   their  look   the  pride  that  filled  him  as  the  cham 
pion  of  the  throne. 

On  they  pressed,  when  sudden   flashing,  ringing,  crash 
ing,  came  the  firing 

Of  our  forward  line  upon  their  close-set  ranks; 
Then    at    coming    of    their    steel,    which    moved   with 

steadiness  untiring, 

Fled   our  mountaineers,  re-forming  in  good  order  on 
our  flanks. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS.  73 

Then    the    combat's    ranging    anger,    din,    and   clangor, 

round  and  o'er  us 
Filled    the    forest,    stirred    the    air,    and    shook    the 

ground ; 
Charged   with   thunder-tramp   the  horsemen,  while  their 

sabres  shone  before  us, 

Gleaming     lightly,    streaming    brightly,    through    the 
smoky  cloud  around. 

Through  the  pines  and  oaks  resounding,  madly  bound 
ing  from  the  mountain, 

Leapt  the  rattle  of  the  battle  and  the  roar; 
Fierce    the    hand-to-hand    engaging,    and    the    human 

freshet  raging 

Of  the  surging  current  urging  past  a  dark  and  bloody 
shore. 


Soon  the  course  of  fight  was  altered;  soon  they  faltered 

at  the  leaden 

Storm    that    smote    them,    and    we    saw    their    centre 
swerve. 


74  THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS. 

Tarleton's  eye  flashed  fierce  in   anger;    Tarleton's  face 

began  to  redden; 

Tarleton   gave   the   closing   order — "Bring  to  action 
the  reserve ! " 


Up  the  slope  his   legion  thundered,  full  three  hundred ; 

fiercely  spurring, 

Cheering  lustily,  they  fell  upon  our  flanks ; 
And  their  worn  and  wearied  comrades,  at  the  sound  so 

spirit-stirring, 

Felt  a  thrill   of  hope   and   courage   pass   along   their 
shattered  ranks. 


By  the  wind   the    smoke-cloud   lifted   lightly  drifted  to 

the  nor'ward, 

And  displayed  in  all  their  pride  the  scarlet  foe; 
We    beheld    them,   with   a   steady    tramp    and   fearless, 

moving  forward, 

With  their  banners  proudly  waving,  and  their  bayonets 
levelled  low. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS.  75 

Morgan    gave   his  order  clearly — "Fall  back  nearly  to 

the  border 

Of  the  hill,  and  let  the  enemy  come  nigher !  " 
Oh  !    they  thought  we  had  retreated,  and  they  charged 

in  fierce  disorder, 

When  out  rang  the  voice  of  Howard — "To  the  right 
about,  face  !  —  Fire  !  " 


Then  upon  our  very  wheeling  came  the  pealing  of  our 

volley, 

And  our  balls  made  red  a  pathway  down  the  hill; 
Broke    the   foe    and   shrank    and   cowered ;    rang   again 

the  voice  of  Howard — 

"Give  the  hireling  dogs  the  bayonet!" — and  we  did 
it  with  a  will. 


In  the  meanwhile  one  red-coated  troop,  unnoted,  riding 

faster 
Than  their  comrades  on  our  rear  in  fury  bore ; 


76  THE  BATTLE   OF   THE   COWPENS. 

But  the  light-horse  led  by  Washington  soon  brought  it 

to  disaster, 

For   they  shattered   it  and   scattered  it,  and  smote  it 
fast  and  sore. 


Like  a  herd   of  startled   cattle  from  the  battle-field  we 

drove  them ; 

In  disorder  down  the  Mill-gap  road  they  fled ; 
Tarleton  led  them  in  the  racing,  fast  he  fled  before  our 

chasing, 

And  he  stopped  not  for  the  dying,  and  he  stayed  not 
for  the  dead. 

Down  the  Mill-gap  road  they  scurried  and  they  hurried 

with  such  fleetness — 

We  had  never  seen  such  running  in  our  lives  ! 
Ran    they  swifter    than    if  seeking  homes  to  taste  do 
mestic  sweetness, 

Having   many  years   been  parted  from  their  children 
and  their  wives. 


THE  BATTLE   OF   THE   COIVPENS.  77 

Ah !   for   some    no  wife   to   meet   them,   child  to  greet 

them,  friend  to  shield  them  ! 
To  their  home  o'er  ocean  never  sailing  back; 
After  them  the  red  avengers,  bitter  hate  for  death  had 

sealed  them, 

Yelped  the  dark  and  red-eyed  sleuth-hound  unrelent 
ing  on  their  track. 

In  their  midst  I  saw  one  trooper,  and  around  his  waist 

I  noted 

Tied  a  simple  silken  scarf  of  blue  and  white ; 
When  my  vision  grasped  it  clearly  to  my  hatred  I  de 
voted 

Him,  from   all   the   hireling  wretches  who  were   min 
gled  there  in  flight. 

For  that  token  in  the  summer  had  been  from  our  cabin 

taken 

By  the  robber-hands  of  wrongers  of  my  kin ; 
'T  was  my  sister's — for  the  moment  things  around  me 

were  forsaken  ; 
I  was  blind  to  fleeing  foemen,  I  was  deaf  to  battle's  din. 


78  THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS. 

Olden   comrades   round   me   lying   dead   or  dying  were 

unheeded ; 

Vain   to   me   they  looked   for  succor  in  their  need. 
O'er  the  corses  of  the  soldiers,  through  the   gory  pools 

I  speeded, 

Driving  rowel-deep  my  spurs  within  my  madly  bound 
ing  steed. 

As   I   came  he  turned,  and  staring  at  my  glaring  eyes 

he  shivered; 

Pallid  fear  went  quickly  o'er  his  features  grim ; 
As   he   grasped   his   sword  in  terror,  every  nerve  within 

him  quivered, 

For  his  guilty  spirit  told  him  why  I  solely  sought  for 
him. 

Though  the  stroke  I   dealt   he  parried,  onward  carried, 

down  I  bore  him — 

Horse  and  rider — down  together  went  the  twain  : 
"Quarter!" — He!   that  scarf  had  doomed   him!   stood 

a  son  and  brother  o'er  him ; 


THE  BATTLE   OF  THE   COWPENS.  79 

Down  through  plume  and  brass  and  leather  went  my 

sabre  to  the  brain  — 
Ha!  no  music  like  that  crushing  through  the  skull-bone 

to  the  brain. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


TO   THE    MEMORY  OF   THE  AMERICANS 
WHO  FELL  AT  EUTAW. 

Sept.  8,  The  fight  at  Eutaw  Springs,  although  called  a  drawn 

I  n  3 1 .  battle,  resulted  in  the  withdrawal  of  the  British  troops 

from  South  Carolina. 

\   T  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died: 
•*•  *~     Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er — 
Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide ; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more  ! 

If,  in  this  wreck  of  ruin,  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  the  tear, 

Oh,  smite  your  gentle  breast,  and  say, 
The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here ! 

Thou,  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 
Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds,  sunk  to  rest ! 

80 


THE  AMERICANS  WHO  FELL  AT  EUTAW.  81 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn ; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear ; 
'Tis  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear, — 


They  saw  their  injur'd  country's  woe ; 

The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field; 
Then  rush'd  to  meet  the  insulting  foe; 

They  took  the  spear — but  left  the  shield. 

Led  by  thy  conquering  genius,  Greene, 
The  Britons  they  compell'd  to  fly: 

None  distant  view'd  the  fatal  plain, 

None  griev'd,  in  such  a  cause,  to  die, — 

But,  like  the  Parthians,  fam'd  of  old, 
Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw; 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 


82   THE  AMERICANS  WHO  FELL  AT  EUTAW. 

Now  rest  in  peace,  our  patriot  band; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown, 
We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 

PHILIP  FRENEAU. 


PERRY'S   VICTORY   ON    LAKE    ERIE. 

Sept.  IO  Throughout  the  war  of  1812  with  Great  Britain,  the 

.  navy  was  more  successful  than  the  army.     In  the 

battle   on  Lake  Erie,    Commodore    Oliver  Hazard 
Perry  captured  six  British  vessels. 

BRIGHT  was  the  morn, — the  waveless  bay 
Shone  like  a  mirror  to  the  sun; 
'Mid  greenwood  shades  and  meadows  gay, 
The  matin  birds  their  lays  begun: 
While  swelling  o'er  the  gloomy  wood 
Was  heard  the  faintly-echoed  roar,— 
The  dashing  of  the  foaming  flood, 
That  beat  on  Erie's  distant  shore. 

The  tawny  wanderer  of  the  wild 
Paddled  his  painted  birch  canoe, 
And,  where  the  wave  serenely  smiled, 
Swift  as  the  darting  falcon,  flew; 
He  rowed  along  that  peaceful  bay, 
And  glanced  its  polished  surface  o'er, 
83 


84  PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE. 

Listening  the  billow  far  away, 
That  rolled  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 


What  sounds  awake  my  slumbering  ear  ? 

What  echoes  o'er  the  waters  come  ? 

It  is  the  morning  gun  I  hear, 

The  rolling  of  the  distant  drum. 

Far  o'er  the  bright  illumined  wave 

I  mark  the  flash, —  I  hear  the  roar, 

That  calls  from  sleep  the  slumbering  brave, 

To  fight  on  Erie's  lonely  shore. 

See  how  the  starry  banner  floats, 
And  sparkles  in  the  morning  ray  : 
While  sweetly  swell  the  fife's  gay  notes 
In  echoes  o'er  the  gleaming  bay  : 
Flash  follows  flash,  as  through  yon  fleet 
Columbia's  cannons  loudly  roar, 
And  valiant  tars  the  battle  greet, 
That  storms  on  Erie's  echoing  shore. 


PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE.  85 

O,  who  can  tell  what  deeds  were  done, 
When  Britain's  cross,  on  yonder  wave, 
Sunk  'neath  Columbia's  dazzling  sun, 
And  met  in  Erie's  flood  its  grave  ? 
Who  tell  the  triumphs  of  that  clay, 
When,  smiling  at  the  cannon's  roar, 
Our  hero,  'mid  the  bloody  fray, 
Conquered  on  Erie's  echoing  shore. 

Though  many  a  wounded  bosom  bleeds 

For  sire,  for  son,  for  lover  dear, 

Yet  Sorrow  smiles  amid  her  weeds, — 

Affliction  dries  her  tender  tear; 

Oh !  she  exclaims,  with  glowing  pride, 

With  ardent  thoughts  that  wildly  soar, 

My  sire,  my  son,  my  lover  died, 

Conquering  on  Erie's  bloody  shore. 

Long  shall  my  country  bless  that  day, 
When  soared  our  Eagle  to  the  skies; 


86  PERRY'S  VICTORY  ON  LAKE  ERIE. 

Long,  long  in  triumph's  bright  array, 
That  victory  shall  proudly  rise  : 
And  when  our  country's  lights  are  gone, 
And  all  its  proudest  days  are  o'er, 
How  will  her  fading  courage  dawn, 
To  think  on  Erie's  bloody  shore ! 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 


THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER. 

Sent.  14  After  the  British  had  brutally  turned  the  Capitol  at 

jgj?  Washington,  in  August,  1813,  they  retired  to  their 

ships,  and  on  September  izth  and  ijth,  they  made 
an  attack  on  Baltimore.  This  poem  was  written 
on  the  morning  after  the  Bombardment  of  Fort 
McHenry,  while  the  author  was  a  prisoner  on  the 
Biitish  fleet. 

OH  !  say  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming ; 
Whose    broad    stripes    and    bright    stars    through    the 

perilous  fight, 
O'er    the    ramparts   we    watched,  were    so    gallantly 

streaming  ? 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through   the   night   that   our  flag  was  still 

there ; 

Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 
87 


88  THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

On    the    shore,   dimly   seen    through    the    mists    of  the 

deep, 
Where    the    foe's     haughty    host     in    dread     silence 

reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam ; 
Its  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 
'T  is   the    star-spangled    banner !     Oh !     long   may   it 

wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 

A  home  and  a  country  they  'd  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their   blood   hath    washed    out    their   foul    footsteps' 
pollution ; 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER.  89 

Oh !    thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation  ; 
Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven-rescued 

land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 

nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "In  God  is  our  trust": 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Tan.  8,  The    treaty  of  peace   between  Great  Britain  and  the 

1 3 1  C  United  States  was  signed  at  Ghent,  December  14, 

1814;  but  before  the  news  crossed  the  ocean,  Paken- 
ham,  -with  twelve  thousand  British  veterans,  at 
tacked  New  Orleans  defended  by  Andrew  Jackson 
with  Jive  thousand  Americans,  mostly  militia.  The 
British  were  repulsed  with  a  loss  of  two  thousand ; 
the  American  loss  was  trifling. 

HERE,  in  my  rude  log  cabin, 
Few  poorer  men  there  be 
Among  the  mountain  ranges 

Of  Eastern  Tennessee. 
My  limbs  are  weak  and  shrunken, 

White  hairs  upon  my  brow, 
My  dog — lie  still,  old  fellow!  — 

My  sole  companion  now. 
Yet  I,  when  young  and  lusty, 

Have  gone  through  stirring  scenes, 
For  I  went  down  with  Carroll 
To  fight  at  New  Orleans. 
90 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  91 

You  say  you  'd  like  to  hear  me 

The  stirring  story  tell 
Of  those  who  stood  the  battle 

And  those  who  fighting  fell. 
Short  work  to  count  our  losses  — 

We  stood  and  dropp'd  the  foe 
As  easily  as  by  firelight 

Men  shoot  the  buck  or  doe. 
And  while  they  fell  by  hundreds 

Upon  the  bloody  plain, 
Of  us,  fourteen  were  wounded, 

And  only  eight  were  slain. 

The  eighth  of  January, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
Our  raw  and  hasty  levies 

Were  brought  into  array. 
No  cotton -bales  before  us — 

Some  fool  that  falsehood  told; 
Before  us  was  an  earthwork, 

Built  from  the  swampy  mold. 


92  THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

And  there  we  stood  in  silence, 
And  waited  with  a  frown, 

To  greet  with  bloody  welcome 
The  bull-dogs  of  the  Crown. 

The  heavy  fog  of  morning 

Still  hid  the  plain  from  sight, 
When  came  a  thread  of  scarlet 

Marked  faintly  in  the  white. 
We  fired  a  single  cannon, 

And  as  its  thunders  roll'd 
The  mist  before  us  lifted 

In  many  a  heavy  fold. 
The  mist  before  us  lifted, 

And  in  their  bravery  fine 
Came  rushing  to  their  ruin 

The  fearless  British  line. 

Then  from  our  waiting  cannons 
Leap'd  forth  the  deadly  flame, 

To  meet  the  advancing  columns 
That  swift  and  steady  came. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.          93 

The  thirty-twos  of  Crowley 

And  Bluchi's  twenty-four, 
To  Spotts's  eighteen-pounders 

Responded  with  their  roar, 
Sending  the  grape-shot  deadly 

That  marked  its  pathway  plain, 
And  paved  the  road  it  traveli'd 

With  corpses  of  the  slain. 

Our  rifles  firmly  grasping, 

And  heedless  of  the  din, 
We  stood  in  silence  waiting 

For  orders  to  begin. 
Our  fingers  on  the  triggers, 

Our  hearts,  with  anger  stirr'd, 
Grew  still  more  fierce  and  eager 

As  Jackson's  voice  was  heard : 
"  Stand  steady  !     Waste  no  powder 

Wait  till  your  shots  will  tell ! 
To-day  the  work  you  finish  — 

See  that  you  do  it  well ! " 


94  THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Their  columns  drawing  nearer, 

We  felt  our  patience  tire, 
When  came  the  voice  of  Carroll, 

Distinct  and  measured,  "  Fire  !  " 
Oh  !    then  you  should  have  mark'd  us 

Our  volleys  on  them  pour — 
Have  heard  our  joyous  rifles 

Ring  sharply  through  the  roar, 
And  seen  their  foremost  columns 

Melt  hastily  away 
As  snow  in  mountain  gorges 

Before  the  floods  of  May. 

They  soon  reform'd  their  columns, 

And  'mid  the  fatal  rain 
We  never  ceased  to  hurtle 

Came  to  their  work  again. 
The  Forty-fourth  is  with  them, 

That  first  its  laurels  won 
With  stout  old  Abercrombie 

Beneath  an  eastern  sun. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.          9; 

It  rushes  to  the  battle, 

And,  though  within  the  rear 

Its  leader  is  a  laggard, 
It  shows  no  signs  of  fear. 

It  did  not  need  its  colonel, 

For  soon  there  came  instead 
An  eagle-eyed  commander, 

And  on  its  march  he  led. 
'Twas  Pakenham,  in  person, 

The  leader  of  the  field ; 
I  knew  it  by  the  cheering 

That  loudly  round  him  peal'd ; 
And  by  his  quick,  sharp  movement, 

We  felt  his  heart  was  stirr'd, 
As  when  at  Salamanca, 

He  led  the  fighting  Third. 

I  raised  my  rifle  quickly, 

I  sighted  at  his  breast, 
God  save  the  gallant  leader 

And  take  him  to  his  rest! 


96  THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

I  did  not  draw  the  trigger, 

I  could  not  for  my  life. 
So  calm  he  sat  his  charger 

Amid  the  deadly  strife, 
That  in  my  fiercest  moment 

A  prayer  arose  from  me, — 
God  save  that  gallant  leader, 

Our  foeman  though  he  be. 

Sir  Edward's  charger  staggers : 

He  leaps  at  once  to  ground, 
And  ere  the  beast  falls  bleeding 

Another  horse  is  found. 
His  right  arm  falls — 'tis  wounded; 

He  waves  on  high  his  left ; 
In  vain  he  leads  the  movement, 

The  ranks  in  twain  are  cleft. 
The  men  in  scarlet  waver 

Before  the  men  in  brown, 
And  fly  in  utter  panic — 

The  soldiers  of  the  Crown ! 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  97 

I  thought  the  work  was  over, 

But  nearer  shouts  were  heard, 
And  came,  with  Gibbs  to  head  it, 

The  gallant  Ninety-third. 
Then  Pakenham,  exulting, 

With  proud  and  joyous  glance, 
Cried,  "  Children  of  the  tartan — 

Bold  Highlanders — advance! 
Advance  to  scale  the  breast-works 

And  drive  them  from  their  hold, 
And  show  the  stanchless  courage 

That  mark'd  your  sires  of  old !  " 

His  voice  as  yet  was  ringing, 

When,  quick  as  light,  there  came 
The  roaring  of  a  cannon, 

And  earth  seemed  all  aflame. 
Who  causes  thus  the  thunder 

The  doom  of  men  to  speak  ? 
It  is  the  Baritarian, 

The  fearless  Dominique. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

Down  through  the  marshall'd  Scotsmen 
The  step  of  death  is  heard, 

And  by  the  fierce  tornado 
Falls  half  the  Ninety-third. 

The  smoke  passed  slowly  upward, 

And,  as  it  soared  on  high, 
I  saw  the  brave  commander 

In  dying  anguish  lie. 
They  bear  him  from  the  battle 

Who  never  fled  the  foe ; 
Unmoved  by  death  around  them 

His  bearers  softly  go. 
In  vain  their  care,  so  gentle, 

Fades  earth  and  all  its  scenes; 
The  man  of  Salamanca 

Lies  dead  at  New  Orleans. 

But  where  were  his  lieutenants  ? 

Had  they  in  terror  fled  ? 
No!    Keane  was  sorely  wounded 

And  Gibbs  as  good  as  dead. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.  99 

Brave  Wilkinson  commanding, 

A  major  of  brigade, 
The  shatter'd  force  to  rally, 

A  final  effort  made. 
He  led  it  up  our  ramparts, 

Small  glory  did  he  gain  — 
Our  captives  some,  while  othfs  fled, 

And  he  himself  was  slain. 

The  stormers  had  retreated, 

The  bloody  work  was  o'er ; 
The  feet  of  the  invaders 

Were  seen  to  leave  our  shore. 
We  rested  on  our  rifles 

And  talk'd  about  the  fight, 
When  came  a  sudden  murmur 

Like  fire  from  left  to  right; 
We  turned  and  saw  our  chieftain, 

And  then,  good  friend  of  mine, 
You  should  have  heard  the  cheering 

That  rang  along  the  line. 


ioo         THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS. 

For  well  our  men  remembered 

How  little  when  they  came, 
Had  they  but  native  courage, 

And  trust  in  Jackson's  name ; 
How  through  the  day  he  labored, 

How  kept  the  vigils  still, 
Till  discipline  controlled  us, 

A  stronger  power  than  will ; 
And  how  he  hurled  us  at  them 

Within  the  evening  hour, 
That  red  night  in  December, 

And  made  us  feel  our  power. 

In  answer  to  our  shouting 

Fire  lit  his  eye  of  gray; 
Erect,  but  thin  and  pallid, 

He  passed  upon  his  bay. 
Weak  from  the  baffled  fever, 

And  shrunken  in  each  limb, 
The  swamps  of  Alabama 

Had  done  their  work  on  him. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  NEW  ORLEANS.         101 

But  spite  of  that  and  lasting, 
And  hours  of  sleepless  care, 

The  soul  of  Andrew  Jackson 
Shone  forth  in  glory  there. 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG. 

2O  The  penultimate  quatrain  [enclosed  in  brackets]  ended 

1810.  the  poem    as    Drake   wrote    it,    but   Filz   Greene 

Halleck  suggested  the  final  four  lines,  and  Drake 
accepted  his  friend's  quatrain  in  place  of  his  train. 

WHEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ! 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light, 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land ! 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 
Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG.  103 

To  hear  the  tempest-tramping  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  stride  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven ! 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
(Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glist'ning  bayonet), 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  meteor-glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ! 


104  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ! 
There  shall  thy  victor-glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath, 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below, 

The  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean's  wave 
Thy  star  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  Death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broad-side's  reeling  rack, 
The  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look,  at  once,  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile,  to  see  thy  splendors  fly, 
In  triumph,  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 
By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ! 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG.  105 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven ! 
[And  fixed  as  yonder  orb  divine, 

That  saw  thy  bannered  blaze  unfurled, 
Shall  thy  proud  stars  resplendent  shine, 

The  guard  and  glory  of  the  world.] 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us? 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us! 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 


OLD    IRONSIDES. 

Sept.  1 6  The  frigate  Constitution  was  launched  in  1797,  and  took 

ig^O.  Part  in  the  iv ar  with  Tripoli  in  1804.     In  1812  she 

captured  the  British  Guerriere  on  August  igth,  and 
the  British  Java  on  December  zgth.  After  the  war  she 
served  as  a  training  ship.  In  1830  it  was  proposed  to 
break  her  up,  which  called  forth  this  indignant  poem. 
In  1876  she  was  refitted,  and  in  1878  she  took  over  the 
American  exhibits  to  the  Paris  Exhibition.  She  now 
lies  out  of  commission  in  Rotten  Row,  at  the  Brooklyn 
Navy  Yard. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 
Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 
Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 

106 


OLD  IRONSIDES.  107 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  God  of  storms,  — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


MONTEREY. 

Sept.   10  —  24,      The  assaulting  American  army  at  the  attack  on  Monterey 
1 846.  numbered  six  thousand  six  hundred  and  twenty-five  ; 

the  defeated  Mexicans  -were  about  ten  thousand. 

WE  were  not  many  —  we  who  stood 
Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  with  us  been  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 
1 08 


MONTEREY.  109 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 
WThere  orange-boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many  —  we  who  pressed 
Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 

But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 

He  'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


THE    BIVOUAC    OF   THE   DEAD. 

Feb.    22     2"?        This  poem  was  written   to  commemorate  the  bringing 
1 847.  home  of  the  bodies  of  the  Kentucky  soldiers  who  fell 

at  Buena  Vista,  and  their  burial  at  Frankfort  at  the 
cost  of  the  State. 

r\  AHE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

•*-       The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD. 

No  braying  horn,  nor  screaming  fife, 
At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 


Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 


112  THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the   watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spam; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 
Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 

The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 
The  nation's  flag  to  save. 


THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD.  113 

By  rivers  of  their  father's  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain  — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  the  mouldering  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 


H4  THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD, 

So,  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast, 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone, 
In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 

When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 
The  story  how  ye  fell ; 


THE   BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD.  115 

Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 

I'HEODORE  O'HARA. 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S 
FERRY. 

Oct.  1 6—  M  was  on  Sunday,  October  i6th,  that  John  Brown  took 

Dgc    2  the  Arsenal  at  Harper  s  Ferry.     On  the  i8th  he  was 

j  g  -Q  captured.    On  December  zd  he  was  hanged.   One  year 

later  began  the  War  -which  caused  the  abolition  of 

slavery. 

JOHN    BROWN    in  Kansas   settled,  like  a   steadfast 
Yankee  farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of 

might. 

There   he   spoke   aloud   for   freedom,   and   the    Border- 
strife  grew  warmer, 

Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in 
the  night; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in   the   morning  —  to   find   his  house 
burned  down. 

116 


OLD  BROWN.  117 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle   and  boldly  fought  for 

freedom ; 
Smote   from   border  unto   border  the  fierce,  invading 

band; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven 

help  and  speed  'em !  — 

They  would   save    those    grand  old   prairies  from  the 
curse  that  blights  the  land ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us ! "  and   he  shoved 
his  ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day 

and  even, 
Saving   Kansas  from   its   peril ;    and   their   very  lives 

seemed  charmed, 
Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the   blessed  light  of 

Heaven,  — 

In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed) 
all  unarmed; 


II 8  OLD  BROWN. 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Shed   not   a   tear,  but    shut   his    teeth,  and    frowned    a 
terrible  frown ! 

Then   they  seized   another   brave   boy,  —  not   amid  the 

heat  of  battle, 
But   in   peace,   behind    his   ploughshare,  —  and    they 

loaded  him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad 

their  cattle, 

Drove   him  cruelly,  for  their   sport,  and   at  last  blew 
out  his  brains ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Raised  his  right  hand   up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's 
vengeance  down. 

And    he    swore    a    fearful    oath,    by    the   name    of  the 

Almighty, 

He  would  hunt  this   ravening   evil   that  had  scathed 
and  toni  him  so ; 


OLD  BROWN.  119 

He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals ;  he  would  crush  it  day 

and  night;    he 

Would   so   pursue   its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for 
blow, 

That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Should   be   a   name   to   swear   by,  in   backwoods   or  in 
town  ! 

Then    his   beard   became    more    grizzled,  and   his   wild 

blue  eye  grew  wilder, 
And    more    sharply  curved    his    hawk's-nose,  snuffing 

battle  from  afar; 
And   he    and    the    two    boys    left,    though    the    Kansas 

strife  waxed  milder, 

Grew  more   sullen,    till  was   over   the   bloody  Border 
War, 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare 
and  frown. 


120  OLD  BROWN. 

So  he  left   the  plains  of  Kansas   and  their  bitter  woes 

behind  him. 

Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  statesmen  all  are  born, 
Hired   a   farm    by  Harper's    Ferry,  and    no    one    knew 

where  to  find  him, 

Or  whether  he  'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed  and 
shorn ; 

For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a  parson's 
gown 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shovels, 

and  such  trifles; 

But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  train, 
Boxes    full   of  pikes    and   pistols,  and   his  well-beloved 

Sharp's  rifles ; 

And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader  there 
again. 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 


OLD   BROWN.  121 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march  and 
take  the  town ! 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  negroes 

and  then  arm  them ; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay,  and  all  the  potent 

South. 
On  their    own    heads    be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims 

rise  to  harm  them  — 

These  Virginians !  who  believed  not,  nor  would  heed 
the  warning  mouth." 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  The  world  shall    see    a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not 
John  Brown." 

'T  was  the   sixteenth  of  October,  on    the  evening  of  a 

Sunday : 
"  This    good  work,"  declared    the    captain,  "  shall  be 

on  a  holy  night !  " 
It  was   on   a   Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of 

Monday, 


122  OLD  BROWN. 

With    two    sons,  and    Captain    Stephens,   fifteen    pri 
vates  —  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked  the 
sentry  down; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets  and 

the  cannon  ; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one 

by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran 

on, 

And   before   the    noon   of   Monday,  I    say,  the    deed 
was  done. 

Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

With   his    eighteen   other   crazy  men,  went  in  and  took 
the  town. 

Very   little    noise    and    bluster,   little    smell    of   powder 
made  he ; 


OLD  BROWN.  123 

It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's 

coup  d'etat. 
"  Cut  the  wires  !     Stop  the  rail-cars !     Hold  the  streets 

and  bridges !  "  said  he, 

Then    declared    the    new  Republic,  with   himself  for 
guiding  star, — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Then  was   riding   and   railroading   and   expressing   here 

and  thither ; 

And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charles- 
town  Volunteers, 
And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia  hastened 

whither 

Old    Brown   was    said    to    muster    his    ten    thousand 
grenadiers. 

General  Brown  ! 
Osawatomie  Brown ! ! 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was  pouring 
down. 


124  OLD  BROWN. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped  from  Old 

Brown's  durance, 
And    the    effervescent    valor    of  the    Chivalry    broke 

out, 

When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the  mar 
velous  assurance  — 

Only  nineteen  —  thus   to   seize   the  place   and   drive 
them  straight  about; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Found   an   army  come   to  take  him,  encamped  around 
the  town. 

But   to   storm,  with   all   the    forces    I   have    mentioned, 

was  too  risky ; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government 

Marines, 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their  souls 

with  Bourbon  whiskey, 

Till    they  battered    down    Brown's    castle  with    their 
ladders  and  machines; 


OLD  BROWN.  125 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  brave 
old  crown. 

Tallyho !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying ! 
In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting   lustily 

away ; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who   came   too 

late  for  slaying, 

Not   to   lose   a   share    of  glory,  fired   their  bullets  in 
his  clay ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his   sons   fall   dead  beside  him,  and  between  them 
laid  him  down. 

How   the    conquerors   wore     their     laurels;     how   they 

hastened  on  the  trial; 

How    Old    Brown   was    placed,   half    dying,   on    the 
Charlestown  court-house  floor; 


126  OLD  BROWN. 

How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them,  —  these  are 
known  the  country  o'er. 

"  Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,    "  and  all  such  rebels !  "  with  his  most 
judicial  frown. 

But,   Virginians,  don't    do   it!    for    I    tell   you   that   the 

flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring,  was  first 

poured  by  Southern  hands ; 
And   each   drop    from    Old   Brown's   life-veins,  like   the 

red  gore  of  the  dragon, 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your 
slave-worn  lands ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  Ve  nailed 
his  coffin  down! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


APOCALYPSE. 

April  ig  The  first  life  lost  in  the  battle  with  rebellion  was  that 

l86l.  °f  Private  Arthur  Ladd,  of  the  Sixth  Massachu 

setts,  killed  in  the  attack  of  the  Baltimore  mob  on  his 
regiment. 

STRAIGHT  to  his  heart  the  bullet  crushed; 
Down  from  his  breast  the  red  blood  gushed, 
And  o'er  his  face  a  glory  rushed. 

A  sudden  spasm  shook  his  frame, 
And  in  his  ears  there  went  and  came 
A  sound  as  of  devouring  flame. 

Which  in  a  moment  ceased,  and  then 
The  great  light  clasped  his  brows  again, 
So  that  they  shone  like  Stephen's  when 

Saul  stood  apart  a  little  space 

And  shook  with  shuddering  awe  to  trace 

God's  splendors  settling  o'er  his  face. 


128  APOCALYPSE. 

Thus,  like  a  king,  erect  in  pride, 

Raising  clean  hands  toward  heaven,  he  cried 

"All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes!"  and  died. 

Died  grandly.     But  before  he  fell  — 
(O  blessedness  ineffable ! ) 
Vision  apocalyptical 

Was  granted  to  him,  and  his  eyes, 
All  radiant  with  glad  surprise, 
Looked  forward  through  the  Centuries, 

And  saw  the  seeds  which  sages  cast 
In  the  world's  soil  in  cycles  past, 
Spring  up  and  blossom  at  -the  last ; 

Saw  how  the  souls  cf  men  had  grown, 
And  where  the  scythes  of  Truth  had  mown 
Clear  space  for  Liberty's  white  throne ; 

Saw  how,  by  sorrow  tried  and  proved, 
The  blackening  stains  had  been  removed 
Forever  from  the  land  he  loved ; 


APOCALYPSE. 

Saw  Treason  crushed  and  Freedom  crowned, 
And  clamorous  Faction,  gagged  and  bound, 
Gasping  its  life  out  on  the  ground. 


With  far-off  vision  gazing  clear 
Beyond  this  gloomy  atmosphere 
Which  shuts  us  out  with  doubt  and  fear 

He  —  marking  how  her  high  increase 
Ran  greatening  in  perpetual  lease 
Through  balmy  years  of  odorous  Peace 

Greeted  in  one  transcendent  cry 

Of  intense,  passionate  ecstacy 

The  sight  which  thrilled  him  utterly; 

Saluting,  with  most  proud  disdain 
Of  murder  and  of  mortal  pain, 
The  vision  which  shall  be  again ! 
9 


130  APOCALYPSE. 

So,  lifted  with  prophetic  pride, 

Raised  conquering  hands  to  heaven  and  cried : 

"  All  hail  the  Stars  and  Stripes ! "  and  died. 

RICHARD  REALF. 


SCOTT   AND   THE   VETERAN. 


May  13, 
1861. 


A] 


N  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the  War  Department 

came  ; 
He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him  on   many  a  field  of 

fame,  — 
The  Chief  who  shouted  "  Forward  !  "  where'er  his  banner 

rose, 
And  bore  its  stars  in  triumph  behind  the  flying  foes. 

"  Have    you    forgotten,    General,"    the    battered    soldier 

cried, 
"  The  days  of  Eighteen  Hundred   Twelve,  when  I  was 

at  your  side  ? 
Have  you    forgotten  Johnson,  that    fought    at    Lundy's 

Lane  ? 
'T  is  true,  I  'm  old  and  pensioned,  but  I  want  to  fight 

again." 

131 


132  SCOTT  AND    THE    VETERAN. 

''Have  I   forgotten?"  said    the  Chief;    "my  brave  old 

soldier,  No  ! 
And  here  's  the  hand  I  gave   you    then,  and   let  it  tell 

you  so  : 
But    you    have    done    your    share,    my    friend;    you  're 

crippled,  old,  and  gray, 
And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms  and  fresher  blood 

to-day." 

"  But,    General,"    cried    the   veteran,    a   flush    upon   his 

brow, 
"  The    very    men    who    fought    with    us,    they    say,  are 

traitors  now ; 
They  've  torn  the  flag  of  Lundy's  Lane,  —  our  old  red, 

white,  and  blue ; 
And  while  a  drop  of  blood  is  left,  I  '11  show  that  drop 

is  true. 

"  I  'm  not  so  weak  but  I  can  strike,  and  I  've  a  good 

old  gun 
To  get  the  range  of  traitors'  hearts,  and  pick  them,  one 

by  one. 


SCOTT  AND    THE    VETERAN.  133 

Your  Mime   rifles,  and    such    arms,  it  a'n't  worth  while 

to  try  : 
I  could  n't    get    the  hang  o'  them,  but   I  '11    keep    my 

powder  dry  !  " 

"  God   bless    you,    comrade !  "    said    the    Chief;    "  God 

bless  your  loyal  heart ! 
But    younger   men    are   in  the  field,  and  claim  to  have 

their  part ; 
They  '11    plant    our    sacred    banner    in    each    rebellious 

town, 
And  woe,  henceforth,  to  any  hand  that  dares  to  pull  it 

down  !  " 

"  But,  General,"  —  still   persisting,  the  weeping  veteran 

cried, 
"  I  'm  young  enough   to    follow,  so  long  as  you  're  my 

guide ; 
And  some,  you  know,  must  bite  the  dust,  and  that,  at 

least,  can  I, — 
So  give  the  young  ones  place   to  fight,  but  me  a  place 

to  die  ! 


134  SCOTT  AXD    THE    VETERAX. 

"  If  they  should   fire    on    Pickens,  let    the    Coionel    in 

command 

Put  me  upon  the  rampart,  with  the  flag-staff  in  my  hand : 
No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon-smoke,  or  ho\v  the  shell 

may  fly ; 
I  '11  hold  the  Stars  and  Stripes  aloft,  and  hold  them  till 

I  die! 

u  I  'm  ready,  General,  so  you  let  a  post  to  me  be  given, 
Where  Washington  can  see  me,  as  he  looks  from  highest 

heaven, 
And   say  to    Putnam    at    his  side,  or,  may  be.  General 

Wayne : 
'  There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  that  fought  at  Lundy's 

Lane  ! ' 

!<  And  when  the  fight  is  hottest,  before   the  traitors  fly, 
Y.'hen  shell  and  ball  are  screeching  and  bursting  in  the  sky, 
If  any  shot  should  hit  me,  and  lay  me  on  my  face, 
My  soul  would  go  to  Washington's,  and  not  to  Arnold's 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


THE    PICKET    GUARD. 

Sept.  The   stereotyped   announcement,     ' '  All    Quiet  on  the 

1 86 1.  Potomac,"  was  followed  one  day  in  September,  1861, 

by  the  words,  "  A  Picket  Shot,"  and  these  so  moved 

the  authoress  that  she  wrote  this  poem  on  the  impulse 

of  the  moment. 

'*  \   LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 

•£*•     "  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing  —  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out.  all  alone,  the  death  rattle." 

Ail  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 

Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 


136  THE  PICKET  GUARD. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 
Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 


There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep  — 

For  their  mother  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 
That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips  —  when  low-murmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 

Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 
He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 


THE  PICKET  GUARD.  157 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 
As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 


He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "  Ah  !  Mary,  good-bye !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 
No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead  — 
The  picket  's  off  duty  forever. 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 


THE    WASHERS    OF    THE    SHROUD. 

Oct., 
1861. 

A   LONG  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
•£^>     I  walked  one  night  in  mystery  of  dream; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fireflies  pulsed  within  the  meadow-mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistledowns  of  light; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 

But  something  said,  "  This  water  is  of  Death ! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  shroud,  —  ill  thing  to  hear ! " 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD.    139 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three 

Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Northman's  creed, 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 

Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede, . 

One  song :   "  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be." 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morro\v, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed  ; 
Something  too  high  for  joy,  too  deep  for  sorrow, 
Thrilled  in  their  tones,  and  from  their  faces  gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn," 
So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while; 
"The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn; 
For  Austria  ?  Italy  ?  the  Sea-Queen's  isle  ? 
O'er  what   quenched   grandeur   must    our    shroud   be 
drawn  ? 

"  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse, 

That  gathered  States  for  children  round  his  knees, 

That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse, 


0  THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD. 

Feller  of  forests,  linker  of  the  seas, 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's  ? 

"  What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou  ?  and  what  are  we  ? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three  : 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it,  —  why  not  he  ?  " 

"  Is  there  no  hope  ?  "  I  moaned,  "  so  strong,  so  fair ! 

Our  Fowler  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  erewhile 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air ! 

Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file 

For  him,  life's  morn  yet  golden  in  his  hair  ? 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames ! 

1  see,  half  seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 

Must  Hesper  join  the  wailing  ghosts  of  names  ?  " 

"  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victor  and  the  slain  : 


THE  WASHERS   OF  THE  SHROUD.          141 

Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  there  the  victory  lies,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"  Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion  :  Knowledge,  Will,  — 
These  twain  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third,  — 
Obedience,  —  't  is  the  great  tap-root  that  still. 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 
Though    Heaven-loosed   tempests  spend  their  utmost 
skill. 

"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper  ?     'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time  : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime, 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be  ? 

"  Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  Wisdom  ?   held  Opinion's  wind  for  Law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  doomster's  feet ! 


12          THE  WASHERS   OF  THE  SHROUD. 

"  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by;    slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock : 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold, 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 

"  We  sing  old  Sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours;   men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  strength  alone  in  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  stem  God's  fire  v/ith  walls  of  tow. 

"  Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  or  of  gloom; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his. 
But  hasten,  Sisters !    for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"  But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "  not  yet  for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  Ocean's  rim 


THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD.    143 

The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar, 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim  ! 


"  His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  unblenching  through  the  trial-fires; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart,  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires, 
Whose  eye  need  blench  confronted  with  his  foes. 

"  Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  foeman's  lines; 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears;    and  'mid  the  battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines, 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 

"  God,  give  us  peace  !    not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep, 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit, 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap  !  " 


144    THE  WASHERS  OF  THE  SHROUD. 

So  cried  I  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side ; 
Again  the  loon  laughed  mocking,  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


This  war-songwas  written  to  the  tune  of  "John  Brown  s 
1  86  1.  Body,"  —  a  tune  to  which  many  thousands  of  Volun 

teers  were  marching  to  the  front. 


M' 


"INE  eyes   have  seen    the  glory  of  the  coming  of 

the  Lord : 
He  is  trampling   out   the  vintage  where    the   grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored; 

He   hath    loosed   the    fateful    lightning   of  His    terrible 
swift  sword : 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circ 
ling  camps ; 

They  have  builded  Him   an   altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps; 

I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flar 
ing  lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 


146       BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ    in   burnished   rows  of 

steel : 
"  As   ye   deal   with    My  contemners,   so  with    you    My 

grace  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

His  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg 
ment-seat  : 

Oh !   be   swift,   my  soul,  to   answer    Him !   be  jubilant, 

my  feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 

free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 


AT    PORT    ROYAL. 
1861. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 

And  poor  home-comforts  please; 

147 


148  AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast; 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles ; 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  days,  — 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  149 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 
Their  broken  Saxon  words. 

SONG   OF   THE    NEGRO    BOATMEN. 

O,  Praise  an'  tanks!     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone; 
He  leaf  de  land  behind : 


AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  pray  de  Lord :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 

De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 
We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn: 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  151 

O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  word ; 
So  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door 

An'  trow  away  de  key ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 


152  AT  PORT  ROYAL. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


READY. 

1861. 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 
A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
And  lay  at  the  right  of  Rodman's  Point, 
With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid; 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat ;    and  the  captain  said : 

"  If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead!" 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 
No  slavish  soul  had  he; 


154  READY. 

"  Somebody  's  got  to  die,  boys, 
And  it  might  as  well  be  me ! " 

Firmly  he  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide ; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side  : 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 

As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free ;  — 

But  there  was  n't  a  man  of  them  that  day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he  ! 

PHCEBE  CAREY. 


THE    BRAVE  AT    HOME. 

April  12, 

1 86 1,  —  Fort  Sumter. 
April  9, 

1865,  —  Appomattox. 

r  I  AHE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 
-A-       With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 
As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory ! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 
Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 

And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 
What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 

Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 
The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 


156  THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

Hath  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 
Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle ! 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor! 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


"HOW    ARE    YOU,    SANITARY?" 

1 86 1—  Early  in  the  war  was  organized  the  U.  S.  Sanitary 

l86c.  Commission,  to  supply  comforts  to  the  soldier  in  the 

field  from  the  vohmtary  contributions  of  the  men  and 

•women   at  home.     Out  of  this  grew  the  Red-Cross 

Associations  of  Europe. 

DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane 
Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 

Soldier-like  and  merry : 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "  Bully !  "  "  Them  's  the  peach !  " 
"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !  " 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these,  — 
157 


158  "HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?" 

"  U.  S.  San.  Com."     "  That  's  the  cheese !  " 
"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !  " 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo  !  was  stationary ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die, — 

Save  us,  Sanitary !  " 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise; 
But  the  brave  —  whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside  — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride : 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary !  " 

BRET  HARTE. 


i86i- 
1865. 


SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 


COMRADES  known  in  marches  many, 
Comrades,  tried  in  dangers  many, 
Comrades,  bound  by  memories  many, 

Brothers  let  us  be. 
Wounds  or  sickness  may  divide  us, 
Marching  orders  may  divide  us, 
But  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Brothers  of  the  heart  are  we. 

Comrades,  known  by  faith  the  clearest, 
Tried  when  death  was  near  and  nearest, 
Bound  we  are  by  ties  the  dearest, 

Brothers  evermore  to  be. 
And,  if  spared,  and  growing  older, 
Shoulder  still  in  line  with  shoulder, 
159 


160  SONG   OF  THE  SOLDIERS. 

And  with  hearts  no  thrill  the  colder, 
Brothers  ever  we  shall  be. 

By  communion  of  the  banner,  — 
Crimson,  white,  and  starry  banner,  — 
By  the  baptism  of  the  banner, 

Children  of  one  Church  are  we. 
Creed  nor  faction  can  divide  us, 
Race  nor  language  can  divide  us. 
Still,  whatever  fate  betide  us, 

Children  of  the  flag  are  we. 

CHARLES  G.  HALPINE. 


JONATHAN    TO    JOHN. 

Jan.  6,  This  poetic  effusion  of  Mr.  Hosca  Biglow  was  preceded 

1862.  ^  th-e  Idyl  of  the  Bridge  and  the  Monument,  which 

set  forth  another  side  of  American  feeling  at  the 
British  words  and  deeds  consequent  on  the  unauthor 
ized  capture,  by  Commodore  Wilkes,  of  the  Trent,  con 
veying  to  England  two  Confederate  Commissioners. 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me !  " 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons : 


162  JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
There  's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"  By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  and  sue  their  heirs  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
I  only  guess,"  sez  he, 
"  Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !  " 

Who  made  the  law  thet  hurts,  John, 

Heads  I  win,  —  ditto  tails  ? 
"  J.  B"  was  on  his  shirts,  John, 
Onless  my  memory  fails, 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
(I  'm  good  at  thet),"  sez  he, 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  163 

"  Thet  sauce  for  goose  ain't  jest  the  juice 
For  ganders  with  J.  B., 
No  more  than  you  or  me !  " 

When  your  rights  was  our  wrongs,  John, 

You  did  n't  stop  for  fuss,  — 
Britanny's  trident  prongs,  John, 
Was  good  'nough  law  for  us. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Though  physic  's  good,"  sez  he, 
"  It  does  n't  foller  that  he  can  swaller 
Prescriptions  signed  '  J.  B.] 
Put  up  by  you  an'  me !  " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  John : 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It  's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Ef  thet  's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enough 


164  JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

To  bust  up  friend  J.   B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

Why  talk  so  dreffle  big,  John, 

Of  honor  when  it  meant 
You  did  n't  care  a  fig,  John, 
But  jest  for  ten  per  cent  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
He  's  like  the  rest,"  sez  he : 
"  When  all  is  done,  it  's  number  one 
Thet's  nearest  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  've  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"  To  hoe  jest  now ;  but  thet  somehow, 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  165 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  dose  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
"The  surest  plan  to  make  a  Man 
Is,  think  him  so,  J.  L., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me  ! " 

Our  folks  believe  in  Law,  John; 

An'  it  's  for  her  sake,  now, 
They  've  left  the  ax  an'  saw,  John, 
The  anvil  an'  the  plough. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Ef  't  wara't  for  law,"  sez  he, 
"There  'd  be  one  shindy  from  here  to  Indy; 
An'  thet  don't  suit  J.  B. 
(When  't  ain't  'twixt  you  an'  me!)" 

We  know  we  've  got  a  cause,  John, 
Thet 's  honest,  just  an'  true; 


1 66  JONATHAN  TO  JOHN. 

We  thought  't  would  win  applause,  John, 
Ef  nowheres  else,  from  you. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 

His  love  of  right,"  sez  he, 
"  Hangs  by  a  rotten  fibre  o'  cotton  : 

There  's  natur'  in  J.  B., 

Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

The  South  says,  "Poor  folks  douni  .' "  John, 

An,  "All  men  itp  !  "  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John : 
Now  which  is  your  idee  ? 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he ; 
"  But,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du, 
Why,  there  's  the  old  J.  B. 
A  crowdin'  you  an'  me !  " 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John  ? 

It  's  you  thet  's  to  decide; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 

Like  all  the  world's  beside  ? 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  167 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"  But  not  forget;  an'  some  time  yet 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me !  " 

God  means  to  make  this  land,  John, 
Clear  thru,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Believe  an'  understand,  John, 
The  wuth  o'  bein'  free. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
God's  price  is  high,"  sez  he; 
"  But  nothin'  else  than  wut  He  sells 
Wears  long,  an'  thet  J.  B. 
May  larn,  like  you  an'  me ! " 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


THE    CUMBERLAND. 

March  8  The  Ctimberland  was  sunk  by  the  iron-clad  rebel  ram 

1862.  "  Merrimac"  going  down  with  her  colors  flying,  and 

firing  even  as  the  water  rose  over  the  gurtwale. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort; 

168 


THE   CUMBERLAND.  169 

Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  ir,;n  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain.  * 

"Never!"  our  gallant  Morris  replies; 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !  " 

And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 
She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 


1 70  THE   CUMBERLAND. 

Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  Thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !    brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream ; 
"  Ho  !    brave  land !    with  hearts  like  these, 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE    OLD    SERGEANT. 

After  This  poem  first  appeared  in  the  carrier's  address  of  the 

April    6  —  7  Louisville  Journal,  January  i,  iS6j. 

1862. 

(Shiloh.) 


a  little  nearer,  Doctor,  —  thank  you  —  let 
me  take  the  cup  : 
Draw  your   chair    up,  —  draw  it    closer,  —  just   another 

little  sup  ! 
May  be   you    think    I  'm  better  ;    but    I  'm    pretty  well 

used  up,  — 

Doctor,  you  've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I  'm  just  a 
going  up  ! 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much 

use  to  try  "  — 
"  Never  say  that,"  said   the   Surgeon,  as  he    smothered 

down  a  sigh; 

171 


172  THE   OLD  SERGEANT. 

11  It  vv  ill    never  do,  old    comrade,  for    a    soldier    to   say 

die !  " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor,  when 

you  come  to  die. 

"  Doctor,    what    has   been    the    matter  ?  "      "  You    were 

very  faint,  they  say ; 
You   must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I 

been  away  ?  " 
"Not   that   anybody   knows  of!"     "Doctor — Doctor, 

please  to  stay  ! 
There    is    something    I   must    tell    you,    and    you    wont 

have  long  to  stay  ! 

•'  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I  'm  ready  now 

to  go; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted?  — but    it  could  n't    ha' 

been  so, — 
For  as   sure   as    I  'm  a   Sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at 

Shiloh, 
I  Ve  this  very  night  been   back   there,  on  the  old  field 

of  Shiloh. 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT. 


173 


"  This    is    all    that    I    remember :      The    last    time    the 

Lighter  came, 
And    the    lights    had    all  been   lowered,  and  the  noises 

much  the  same, 
He   had  not   been  gone  five  minutes   before  something 

called  my  name  : 
'  ORDERLY-SERGEANT  —  ROBERT  BURTON  ! '  —  just  that 

way  it  called  my  name. 

"And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and 

so  slow, 
Knew  it  could  n't  be  the  Lighter,  —  he  could  not  have 

spoken  so ; 
And  I   tried    to    answer,  '  Here,  sir ! '  but    I    could   n't 

make  it  go  ; 
For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  could  n't  make  it  go  ! 

"  Then  I  thought :     It  's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug 

and  a  bore ; 
Just  another   foolish   grape-vine  *  —  and    it  wont    come 

any  more ; 

*  Canard. 


174  THE   OLD  SERGEANT. 

But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way  as 

before  : 
'  ORDERLY-SERGEANT  —  ROBERT  BURTON  ! '  even  plainer 

than  before. 


"That   is   all  that  I  remember,  till   a   sudden    burst  of 

light, 
And   I    stood   beside    the   River,  where  we    stood   that 

Sunday  night, 

Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  opposite ! 

"  And  the  same   old    palpitation  came   again   in  all  its 

power, 
And  I  heard  a  Bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial 

Tower ; 
And    the    same    mysterious    voice    said :    '  IT    is    THE 

ELEVENTH    HOUR  ! 

ORDERLY-SERGEANT — ROBERT   BURTON! — IT    is   THE 

ELEVENTH    HOUR ! ' 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  175 

"  Doctor  Austin  !  what  day  is  this  ?  "  "  It  is  Wednes 
day  night,  you  know." 

« Yes,  —  to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  right 
good  time  below  ! 

What  time  is  it,  Doctor  Austin  ?  "  "  Nearly  Twelve." 
"  Then  don't  you  go ! 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened  —  all  this  —  not  an 
hour  ago ! 

"  There  was  where   the  gun-boats  opened  on  the  dark, 

rebellious  host; 
And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns   upon  the 

Coast ; 
There  were  still  the  two   log-houses,  just    the    same,  or 

else  their  ghost, — 
And  the  same  old  transport  took  me  over  —  or  its  ghost! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me   all  deserted  far  and 

wide; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss,  —  there  McCler- 

nand  met  the  tide ; 


176  THE    OLD  SERGEANT. 

There    was    where    stern    Sherman    rallied,    and    where 

Hurlburt's  heroes  died,  — 
Lower    down,  where  Wallace    charged    them,  and    kept 

charging  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace    showed   them  he  was 

of  the  canny  kin, 
There    was    where   old    Nelson    thundered,    and    where 

Rousseau  waded  in ; 
There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  bega.i 

to  win  — 
There  was  where    the    grape-shot    took    me,  just  as  we 

began  to  win. 

"  Now,  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence    over   everything 

was  s;  :read ; 
And    but   for   this   old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on 

my  head, 
I  should   not   have    even    doubted,  to    this    moment,    I 

was  dead,  — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent   as   the  snow  upon  trie 

dead! 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  177 

"  Death  and  silence  !  —  Death  and  silence !    all  around 

me  as  I  sped  ! 
And   behold,    a    mighty    TOWER,  as    if  builded    to    the 

dead,  — 
To    the    Heaven  of   the    heavens,  lifted    up  its   mighty 

head, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed  waving 

from  its  head  ! 

"  Round    and   mighty-based   it   towered  —  up    into   the 

infinite  — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft 

so  bright; 
For  it   shone    like   solid  sunshine ;    and  a  winding  stair 

of  light, 
Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear  out 

of  sight ! 

"  And,  behold,  as  I  approached   it  —  with   a   rapt  and 

dazzled  stare, — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old    comrades   just   ascending   the 

great  Stair, — 


178  THE  OLD  SERGEANT, 

Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of — 'Halt!'  and 

'  Who  goes  there  !  ' 
'  1  'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  '  if  you    are.'  — '  Then    advance, 

sir,  to  the  Stair  ! ' 

"  I  advanced  !  —  That   sentry,  Doctor,  was    Elijah  Bal- 

lantyne !  — 
First  of  all    to  fall    on    Monday,  after  we    had    formed 

the  line : 
'  Welcome,    my    old    Sergeant,    welcome !    Welcome    by 

that  counter-sign  ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak 

of  mine! 

"As  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking  only 
of  the  grave ; 

But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a  bright  and 
bloodless  glaive ; 

'  That  's  the  way,  sir,  to  Head-quarters.'  — '  What  Head 
quarters  ?  '  —  '  Of  the  Brave ! ' 

'  But  the  great  Tower  ?  '  '  That,'  he  answered,  '  is  the 
way,  sir,  of  the  Brave  ! ' 


THE   OLD  SERGEANT.  179 

"Then  a  sudden   shame  came   o'er   me,  at   his  uniform 

of  light ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright; 
'  Ah ! '  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten    the    New  Uniform 

to-night, — 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 

to-night ! ' 

"  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting  there, 

and  I  — 
Doctor  —  did    you    hear    a    footstep  ?       Hark  !  —  God 

bless  you  all !     Good  by  ! 
Doctor,  please  to    give    my  musket    and    my  knapsack, 

when   I  die, 
To    my  Son  —  my  Son    that  's  coming,  —  he  wont  get 

here  till  I  die  J 

"  Tell  hi.Ti  his  old  father   blessed    him    as  he  never  did 

before,  — 
And  to  carry  that    old    musket  "  —     Hark !    a  knock  is . 

at  the  door  !  — 


i8o  THE   OLD  SERGEANT. 

"  Till  the  Union  "  —  See!  it  opens  !  —  "  Father!  Father! 

speak  once  more  !  " 
"Bless  you!" — gasped  the  old  gray  Sergeant,  and   he 

lay  and  said  no  more ! 

FORCEYTHK    WlLLSON. 


THE    RIVER    FIGHT. 

April   24,  The  Confederate  batteries  defending  the  lower  Mississippi 

1862.  mounted  one  hundred  and  twenty  guns.      Farragut 

ran  his  squadron  past  them  ' '  under  such  a  fire  from 
them,"  he  wrote,  "  as  I  imagine  the  world  has  never 
seen."  Beyond  the  forts  he  met  and  destroyed  a  fleet 
of  twenty  steamers,  four  iron-clad  rams,  and  many 
Jire-rafts.  Only  one  of  his  ships  was  sunk. 

DO  you  know  of  the  dreary  land, 
If  land  such  region  may  seem, 
Where  't  is  neither  sea  nor  strand, 
Ocean  nor  good  dry  land, 

But  the  nightmare  marsh  of  a  dream  — 
Where  the  Mighty  River  his  death-road  takes, 
'Mid  pools  and  windings  that  coil  like  snakes, 
(A  hundred  leagues  of  bayous  and  lakes,) 
To  die  in  the  great  Gulf  Stream  ? 

No  coast-line  clear  and  true, 
(Granite  and  deep  sea  blue,) 


1 82  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

On  that  dismal  shore  you  pass  — 
Surf-worn  boulder  nor  sandy  beach, 
But  ooze-flats  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

With  shallows  of  water-grass  — 
Reedy  savannas,  vast  and  dun, 
Lying  dead  in  the  dim  March  sun  — 
Huge  rotting  trunks  and  roots  that  lie 
Like  the  blackened  bones  of  the  Shapes  gone  by, 

And  miles  of  sunken  morass. 

No  lovely,  delicate  thing 

Of  life  o'er  the  waste  is  seen  — 
But  the  cayman  couched  by  his  weedy  spring, 

And  the  pelican,  bird  unclean  — 
Or  the  buzzard,  flapping  with  heavy  wing 

Like  an  evil  ghost,  o'er  the  desolate  scene. 

Ah,  many  a  weary  day 

With  our  Leader  there  we  lay, 

In  the  sultry  haze  and  smoke, 
Tugging  our  ships  o'er  the  bar  — 
Till  the  Spring  was  wasted  far, 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  183 

Till  his  brave  heart  almost  broke  — 
For  the  sullen  River  seemed 
As  if  our  intent  he  dreamed  — 

All  his  shallow  mouths  did  spew  and  choke. 

But,  ere  April  fully  past, 

All  ground  over  at  last, 

And  we  knew  the  die  was  cast  — 

Knew  the  day  drew  nigh 
To  dare  to  the  end  one  stormy  deed, 
Might  save  the  Land  at  her  sorest  need, 

Or  on  the  old  deck  to  die ! 

Anchored  we  lay —  and,  a  morn  the  more, 

To  his  captains  and  all  his  men 
Thus  wrote  our  stout  old  Commodore  — 

(He  was  n't  Admiral  then:) 

GENERAL    ORDERS. 

"  Send  your  to'  gallant  masts  down, 
Rig  in  each  flying  jib-boom! 


1 84  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

Clear  all  ahead  for  the  loom 
Of  traitor  fortress  and  town, 
Of  traitor  fleet  bearing  down. 

"  In  with  your  canvas  high  — 

We  shall  want  no  sail  to  fly  ! 
Topsail  and  foresail,  spanker  and  jib, 
(With  the  heart  of  oak  in  the  oaken  rib,) 

Shall  serve  us  to  win  or  die ! 

"Trim  every  hull  by  the  head, 

(So  shall  you  spare  the  lead,) 
Lest,  if  she  ground,  your  ship  swing  round, 

Bows  in-shore,  for  a  wreck  — 
See  your  grapnels  all  clear,  with  pains, 
And  a  solid  kedge  in  your  port  main-chains, 

With  a  whip  to  the  main-yard  — 

Drop  it,  heavy  and  hard, 

When  you  grapple  a  traitor  deck ! 

"  On  forecastle  and  on  poop 
Mount  guns,  as  best  you  may  deem  — 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  185 

If  possible,  rouse  them  up, 

(For  still  you  must  bow  the  stream)  — • 
Also  hoist  and  secure  with  stops 
Howitzers  firmly  in  your  tops, 

To  fire  on  the  foe  abeam. 

"  Look  well  to  your  pumps  and  hose  — 

Have  water-tubs,  fore  and  aft, 

For  quenching  flame  in  your  craft, 
And  the  gun-crews'  fiery  thirst  — 
See  planks  with  felt  fitted  close, 

To  plug  every  shot-hole  tight  — 
Stand  ready  to  meet  the  worst ! 

For  if  I  have  reckoned  aright, 
They  will  serve  us  shot,  both  cold  and  hot, 

Freely  enough,  to-night. 

"  Mark  well  each  signal  I  make  — 
(Our  life-long  service  at  stake, 

And  honor  that  must  not  lag  !) 
Whate'er  the  peril  and  awe, 


1 86  THE   RIVER  FIGHT. 

In  the  battle's  fieriest  flaw, 
Let  never  one  ship  withdraw 

Till  orders  come  from  the  Flag !  " 

Would  you  hear  of  the  River  Fight  ? 
It  was  two,  of  a  soft  spring  night  — 

God's  stars  looked  down  on  all, 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  chilling  breath  — 
Up  the  River  of  Death 

Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 
And  round  him  ranged  the  men 

Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 
Of  manhood,  once  and  agen  — 

Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 

Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck  — 

Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 

Each  his  Line  of  the  Blue  and  Red  — 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  187 

Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail, 
Thornton  fought  the  deck. 


And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 
That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 

Of  the  Seamen  passed  away  — 

(Tyson  conned  our  helm,  that  day, 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns.) 

What  thought  our  Admiral,  then, 
Looking  down  on  his  men  ? 

Since  the  terrible  day, 

(Day  of  renown  and  tears  !) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay, 
When,  a  boy,  by  Porter's  side  he  stood 
Till  deck  and  plank-shear  were  dyed  with  blood, 
'T  is  half  a  hundred  years  — 

Half  a  hundred  years,  to-day  ! 


1 88  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

Who  could  fail,  with  him  ? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher! 
There  had  you  seen,  by  the  star-light  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim  — 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard  a-port, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain, 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain, 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain, 

Soon  as  't  was  sundered)  — 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through  — 
Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 

Jackson  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  Philip  !    ah,  then  — 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  189 

To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor ! 
How  the  loaders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzle  ablaze  ! 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways  ! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 

'T  was  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 
With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash  — 
But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships  — 
(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it,  now, 
All  pounding  away  ! )  —  and  Porter 
Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar  — 

'T  was  the  mighty  sound  and  form 

Of  an  Equatorial  Storm  ! 

(Such  you  see  in  the   Far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drought, 
As  day  draws  nigh  to  even  — 


190  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

Arching  from  North  to  South, 
Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 
The  great  black  bow  comes  on  — 

Till  the  thunder-veil  is  riven, 

When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 

And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 
Rolls  down  the  Amazon!) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 

Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 
Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire  — 

It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 

(We  had  often  had  the  like  before)  — 
'T  was  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 

Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore  — 

And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round 

(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound,) 
Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 

Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground! 

'T  was  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Fort, 
And  straightway  a  rascal  Ram 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  191 

(She  was  shaped  like  the  devil's  dam) 
Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 
Right  alongside  of  us,  to  port  — 

It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length, 
A  huge  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit! 

Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 

Belching  flame  red  and  grim  — 
What  a  roar  came  up  from  it! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad  — 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  the  telling  — 
There  was  no  singing-out  nor  yelling, 
Nor  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short  — 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  a-fire  on  our  port  quarter ! 
Hammocks  a-blaze  in  the  netting, 

Flame  spouting  in  at  every  port  — 
Our  Fourth  Cutter  burning  at  the  davit, 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it.) 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

In  a  twinkling,  the  flames  had  risen 
Halfway  to  main  top  and  mizzen, 
Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes  ! 
Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 
And  the  deep  steam-pumps  throbbed  under, 
Sending  a  ceaseless  flow  — 
Our  top-men,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud  — 

There,  ('t  was  a  wonder!) 
The  burning  ratlins  and  strands 
They  quenched  with  their  bare  hard  hands  — 
But  the  great  guns  below 
Never  silenced  their  thunder! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 

When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 
And  under  head-way  once  more, 

The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 

The  point if  we  had  it  hot  before, 

'T  was  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  long,  loud  thundering  roar  — 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  193 

Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 
And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before  ! 

.But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  Land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun  deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 

For  all  above  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone  — 
(But,  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan.) 
And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 
O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon-smoke, 

That  ever  such  morning  dulls  — 

There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 
On  fire  and  sinking! 


194  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

Now,  up  the  river !  —  though  mad  Chalmette 

Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet. 

Small  helm  we  gave  her,  our  course  to  steer  — 

'T  was  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 
With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 

Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered  the  stream. 

The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high, 

Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky ! 

Then  down  to  the  depths  of  the  turbid  flood, 

Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud  ! 

The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 

A  mighty  bonfire,  from  off  the  town  — 

And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 

A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  a-blaze  — 

The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames, 

(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  tumbling  frames!) 

And  the  smaller  fry  that  Treason  would  spawn, 

Are  lighting  Algiers  like  an  angry  dawn  ! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn, 
Fired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built! 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  195 

So  to  ashes  forever  turn 

The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt! 

But  as  we  neared  the  city, 

By  field  and  vast  plantation, 

(Ah,  millstone  of  our  Nation !) 
With  wonder  and  with  pity 

What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toiling-places, 

Strangely  and  sadly  eyed  — 

Haply,  'mid  doubt  and  fear, 

Deeming  deliverance  near  — 

(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer!) 

And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 

To  greet  the  victor-brave 

One  flag  did  welcome  wave  — 
Raised,  ah  me !    by  a  wretched  hand 
All  outworn  on  our  cruel  Land,  — 

The  withered  hand  of  a  slave! 


196  THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

But  all  along  the  Levee, 

In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain, 

(By  this,  't  was  pouring  heavy,) 
Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train  — 

A  strange  and  a  frenzied  time ! 

There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain, 
Curses,  howls,  and  hisses, 
Out  of  hate's  black  abysses  — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 
All  in  vain  —  all  in  vain ! 

For  from  the  hour  that  the  Rebel  Stream, 
With  the  Crescent  City  lying  abeam, 
.     Shuddered  under  our  keel, 
Smit  to  the  heart  with  self-struck  sting, 
Slavery  died  in  her  scorpion-ring, 
And  Murder  fell  on  his  steel. 

'T  is  well  to  do  and  dare  — 
But  ever  may  grateful  prayer 


THE  RIVER  FIGHT.  197 

Follow,  as  aye  it  ought, 
When  the  good  fight  is  fought, 

When  the  true  deed  is  done  — 
Aloft  in  heaven's  pure  light, 
(Deep  azure  crossed  on  white) 
Our  fair  Church-Pennant  waves 
O'er  a  thousand  thankful  braves, 

Bareheaded  in  God's  bright  sun. 

Lord  of  mercy  and  frown, 

Ruling  o'er  sea  and  shore, 

Send  us  such  scene  once  more ! 

All  in  Line  of  Battle 
When  the  black  ships  bear  down 
On  tyrant  fort  and  town, 

'Mid  cannon  cloud  and  rattle  — 

And  the  great  guns  once  more 

Thunder  back  the  roar 

Of  the  traitor  walls  ashore, 
And  the  traitor  flags  come  down ! 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


KEARNY  AT   SEVEN    PINES. 

May  31, 
1862. 

SO  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'T  was  the   day  when  with    Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field, 
Where    the   red  volleys   poured,  where   the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak 

and  pine, 
Where     the     aim     from     the     thicket    was    surest    and 

nighest,  — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven    Pines,  where  we  still   held  our 

ground, 

198 


KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES.  199 

He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  our  powder, — 
His  sword  waved  us  on  and  we  answered  the  sign : 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but   his   laugh   rang  the 

louder, 

"  There  's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line ! " 

How  he   strode    his   brown    steed!     How  we    saw  his 
blade  brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth  ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  O,  anywhere!    Forward!     'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel: 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line !  " 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 


200  KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES. 

Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 
Where  the  dead   form   their   ranks  at  the  wan  drum 
mer's  sign,  — 

Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 
And  the  word  still  is  Forward !  along  the  whole  line. 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


AFTER    ALL. 

May  31, 
1862. 

r\ AHE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

-*-       The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 

While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  prest, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 
The  faltering  echoes  come, 


202  AFTER   ALL. 

Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet, 
And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper, 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee "  .  .   .  . 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 
The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 

And  over  the  grassy  orchard 
The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 
The  cottage  is  dark  and  still, 

There  's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field, 
And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 
By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone, 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 


DIRGE    FOR  A    SOLDIER. 

Sept.    I  These  verses  were  written  in  memory  of  General  Philip 

j  3  6  2 .  Kearny,  killed  at  Chant  illy  after  he  had  ridden  out  in 

advance  of  his  men  to  reconnoitre. 

CLOSE  his  eyes ;    his  work  is  done ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 

•/ 

What  cares  he  ?   he  can  not  know  : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 
Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 

Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 

In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 

203 


204  DIRGE  FOR  A   SOLDIER. 

What  cares  he  ?    he  can  not  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 
What  but  death  bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?   he  can  not  know : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye, 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by  : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him, 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?   he  can  not  know : 

Lay  him  low! 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


BARBARA    FRIETCHIE. 


Sept.  6, 
1862. 


UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn. 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall, — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 
205 


206  BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire!  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  207 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 


208  BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  StonewalPs  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


FREDERICKSBURG. 


Dec.   13, 

1862. 


r  I  AHE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
-•-       And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg :    far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration  :    on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath : 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath  : 
Hark  !  —  the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark!  —  the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down  to  Death 
THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


MUSIC    IN    CAMP. 


Dec.  15-31, 
1862. 


np\VO  armies  covered  hill  and  plain 
-*-       Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  GO  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down 
With  cannon  grimly  planted, 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP.  211 

O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 
The  golden  sunset  slanted ; 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 

A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender, 
The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 

With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  bank; 

Till  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still ;    and  then  the  band 
With  movements  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 


212  MUSIC  IN  CAMP. 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 
The  trumpet  pealed  sonorous, 

And  Yankee  Doodle  was  the  strain 
To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 
To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles  — 

Loud  shrieked  the  crowding  Boys  in  Blue 
Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot: 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  lone  stream  its  noiseless  tread 
Spread  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles : 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP.  213 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood; 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels : 

For  each  responsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  blue  or  gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cottage  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him: 
Sending  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes  — 

The  dear  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 


214  MUSIC  IN  CAMP. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art 
Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 

Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 
Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines, 

That  bright,  celestial  creature, 
Who  still  'mid  war's  embattled  lines 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  nature. 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


KEENAN'S    CHARGE. 

May  2.  During  the  second  day  of  the  battle  of  Chancellorsville, 

1363.  General  Pleasonton  was  trying  to  get  twenty-two 

guns  into  a  vital  position  as  Stonewall  Jackson  made 
a  sudden  advance.  Time  had  to  be  bought ;  so  Pleas- 
anton  ordered  Major  Peter  Keenan,  commanding  the 
Eighth  Pennsylvania  Cavalry  (four  hundred  strong), 
to  charge  the  advancing  ten  thousand  of  the  enemy. 
An  introduction  to  the  poem,  setting  forth  these  facts, 
is  omitted. 

*    T)Y  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
-U     Brave  Keenan  looked  in  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant  —  clear,  and  cool,  and  still  j 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said :  "  I  will." 

"  Cavalry,  charge !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath  — 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sash'd ; 


216  KEEN  AN*  S   CHARGE. 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 
In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 
And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 
Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 

And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 

And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 

For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 

Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 

On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes.  * 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ring'd  with  flame ; 

Rode  in  and  sabered  and  shot  —  and  fell ; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  saber,  swung 

'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 

Line  after  line ;  ay,  whole  platoons, 


KEENAN'S   CHARGE.  217 

Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 
By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn ; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  —  T  is  a  death  salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain :  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now  —  year  following  year  — 

Over  their  graves,  the  pine-cones  fall, 

And  the  whip-poor-will  chants  his  specter-call ; 

But  they  stir  not  again  :  they  raise  no  cheer : 

They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never  cease, 

Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 

That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


THE    BLACK    REGIMENT. 

May  27  "The  colored  troops  fought  nobly"   was   a   frequent 

1863.  phrase  in  -war  bulletins ;  never  did  they  better  de 

serve  this  praise  than  at  Port  Hudson. 

DARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dread  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land ;  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
218 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT.  219 

Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment 

"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  old  chains  again ! " 
O,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment ! 

"  Charge !  "  Trump  and  drum  awoke, 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT. 

With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  guns'  mouths  they  laugh ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel, 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

"  Freedom  !  "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 
Ah !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  't  is  heard, 
Not  a  mere  party  shout: 
They  gave  their  spirits  out; 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 


THE  BLACK  REGIMENT.  2 

Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death. 
Praying  —  alas !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty ! 
This  was  what  "  freedom  "  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell; 
But  they  are  resting  well; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 

O,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true ! 
Hail  them  as  comrades  tried; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment. 

GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 


JOHN    BURNS    OF    GETTYSBURG. 

Jul7  i,  2,  3, 
1863. 

T  TAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

•*-•*-     Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?  —  No  ?     Ah,  well 

Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns : 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 

The  only  man  who  did  n't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town ; 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July,  Sixty-three, 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  ho\v  but  the  day  before 

John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 


JOHN  BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG.  223 

Looking  down  the  village  street, 

Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 

He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 

And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 

Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 

The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 

The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 

Into  the  milk-pail  red  as  blood ! 

Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 

Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 

But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 

Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 

Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 

Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 

Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed,  kine,  — 

Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 

Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 

That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 

He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 


224  JOHN  BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG. 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass, — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 

While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  Rebels  kept  — 

Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 
Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 
How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 
He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 


JOHN  BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG.  22; 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in, — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 


226  JOHN  BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG. 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat  ?  "     "  Put  her  through  !  " 
"  Your  head  's  level !  "  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 
Called  him  "  Daddy,"  —  begged  he  'd  disclose 
The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those; 
While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off, — 
With  his  long  brown  rifle  and  bell-crown  hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 

Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 

And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 

Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown; 

Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 

Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw,  , 

In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 

The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there; 

And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 


JOHN  BURNS   OF  GETTYSBURG.  227 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest : 

How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 

Broke  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran. 

At  which  John  Burns  —  a  practical  man  — 

Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 

And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns; 

This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns  : 

In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question  's  whether 

You  '11  show  a  hat  that  's  white,  or  a  feather ! 

BRET  HARTE. 


TWILIGHT    ON    SUMTER. 


Aug.  24,  After  the  surrender  of  Major  Anderson,  the  Confederates 

1363.  strengthened  the  fort ;  but,  in  the  spring  of 1863,  the 

U.  S.  guns  on  Morris  Island  battered  it  into  a  shape 
less  ruin. 


STILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 
Sumter  lay; 
A  light  was  overhead, 
As  from  burning  cities  shed, 
And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 

Far  away. 
Not  a  solitary  gun 
Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won, 

Or  lost  the  day! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drooping  Rebel  flag, 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their  play. 


TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER.  229 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn, 

Fame  shall  tell ; 

As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fearless  band 

Shot  and  shell 

Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well, 

(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame!) 
Till  the  walls  were  wrapt  in  flame, 
Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sumter  fell ! 

Now  —  oh,  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom ! 

Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls, 
(Hark!  the  ruined  rampart  falls!) 
There  's  a  justice  that  appalls 

In  its  doom ; 

For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  Rebellion  had  its  birth 


230  TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER. 

Is  its  tomb  ! 

And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall  rise  in  grim  derision  and  make  room ! 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE. 

Dec    •?!  Written  in  Libby  Prison,  Richmond. 

1863. ' 

Jan.  i, 
1864. 

IS  twelve  o'clock  !     Within  my  prison  dreary, 

My  head  upon  my  hand,  sitting  so  weary, 
Scanning  the  future,  musing  on  the  past, 
Pondering  the  fate  that  here  my  lot  has  cast, 
The  hoarse  cry  of  the  sentry  on  his  beat 
Wakens  the  echoes  of  the  silent  street,  — 

"All's  well!" 

Ah  !  is  it  so  ?     My  fellow-captive  sleeping 
Where  the  barred  window  strictest  watch  is  keeping, 
Dreaming  of  home  and  wife  and  prattling  child, 
Of  the  sequestered  vale,  the  mountain  wild,  — 
Tell  me,  when  cruel  morn  shall  break  again, 
Wilt  thou  repeat  the  sentinel's  refrain, 

"  All  's  well !  " 
231 


3 2  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

And  thou,  my  country  !    Wounded,  pale,  and  bleeding, 
Thy  children  deaf  to  a  fond  mother's  pleading, 
Stabbing  with  cruel  hate  the  nurturing  breast 
To  which  their  infancy  in  love  was  prest,  — 
Recount  thy  wrongs,  thy  many  sorrows  name, 
Then  to  the  nations,  if  thou  canst,  proclaim, 

"  All  's  well !  " 

But  through  the  clouds  the  sun  is  slowly  breaking; 
Hope  from  her  long  deep  sleep  is  re-awaking : 
Speed  the  time,  Father !  when  the  bow  of  peace, 
Spanning  the  gulf,  shall  bid  the  tempest  cease, 
When  foemen,  clasping  each  other  by  the  hand, 
Shall  shout  once  more,  in  a  united  land, 

"  All  's  well !  " 
F.  A.  BARTLESON. 


THE    BAY-FIGHT. 

C  The  poet -was  acting  ensign  on  the  staff  of  Admiral  Far- 

1 864.  ragut,  when  he  led  his  squadron  past  Forts  Morgan 

and  Gaines,  and  into  a  victorious  fight  with  the  Con 
federate  fleet  in  the  Bay  of  Mobile.  The  poem  is 
here  somewhat  shortened. 

THREE  days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 
The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 
The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 

We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 
In  blue  Bahama's  turquoise  sea. 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 

The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 


234  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 
And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 

The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coast-wise  as 'we  cruised  or  lay, 
The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 

By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 

Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 

Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines  — 

The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 

And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 
Nor  bolder  Flag  a  foe  to  dare. 

Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer / 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  235 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 

Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  Chief, 

Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 
Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood  — 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earth-work,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time,  —  but  to  the  strong 

The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came; 
And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame ! 

"  Man  your  starboard  battery  !  " 
Kimberly  shouted  — 


THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory  ! 

None  of  us  doubted  — 

No,  not  our  dying  — 

Farragut's  flag  was  flying ! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 

Morgan  roared  on  our  right  — 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight ! 

Ha,  old  ship  !    do  they  thrill, 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 
You  got  in  the  River- Wars  ? 

That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill, 
(Surgery  savage  and  hard), 

Splinted  with  bolt  and  beam, 

Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  237 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 
And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 

At  the  Brooklyn  Navy- Yard! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown 
(Wont  of  old  renown)  — 
But  every  ship  was  drest 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day ; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay  — 
Every  peak  and  mast-head  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed,  two  by  two  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 


238  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 
Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Steadily  nearing  the  head, 
The  great  Flag-Ship  led, 

Grandest  of  sights ! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  Leader's  dauntless  Blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights  — 
So  we  went,  with  the  first  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  mid  the  roar 

Of  the  Rebel  guns  ashore 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  state, 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows  — 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows, 

Each  bluff  old  Sea-Lawyer  ! 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer ! 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  239 

On,  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 

We  drew  to  the  Line  of  Death 
That  our  devilish  Foe  had  laid  — 
Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 

And  baited  villainous  well, 
Right  in  our  path  were  set 

Three  hundred  traps  of  hell! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn! 
There,  while  the  cannon 

Hurtled  and  thundered  — 
(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Flapped  o'er  the  ship  that  morn !)  — 
Caught  by  the  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath, 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 


240  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave  — 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument, 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing,) 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven, 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations  — 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations 

(Christening  the  generations,) 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored 
From  the  main-top,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief  • 
"  Go  on  !  "  —  't  was  all  he  said  — 

Our  helm  was  put  to  the  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  241 

Ahead  lay  the  Tennessee, 

On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 
With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three, 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay)  — 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss  — 

In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft !  — 
In  a  sullen  ring  at  bay 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 

Raking  us  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot; 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung! 

And  the  water-batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 
So  the  battle  raged  and  roared  — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made ! 
16 


242  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 
From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip ! 

How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 
Shook  the  great  ship  ! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 
Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 
Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 

And  falling  in  oaken  showers  — 
But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew ! 

Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 
You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well; 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck; 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  2 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor  — 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue,  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger 

But  there,  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  burn  — 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 

And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Fort 
In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 
Broadsides  thundering  away, 


244  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

And  lightning  from  every  port  — 
Scene  of  glory  and  dread! 

A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 
With  flashes  of  fiery  red  — 

The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  Foe, 
Moving  grimly  and  slow, 

They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 
Where  the  darkest  batteries  fro \vned 
Death  in  the  air  all  round, 

And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 
All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 


THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red; 
But  soon,  as  once  and  agen 
Fore  and  aft  we  sped 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check,) 
You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 

On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 
(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men!) 

Red,  from  mainmast  to  bitts  ! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale  — 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch  — 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  rail ! 

And  ever,  with  steady  con, 
The  ship  forged  slowly  by  — 

And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 

How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead 


246  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Fighting  square  abreast  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red, 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 
Worth  all  the  weary  time  — 

Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 
To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime ! 

Fear  ?     A  forgotten  form  ! 

Death  ?     A  dream  of  the  eyes  ! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew  — 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers  ? 
Would  the  fleet  get  through  ? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  247 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew  - 
Would  the  fleet  win  through  ? 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail 

(How  aforetime  they  've  fought!) 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail  — 

They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard,  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 
Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship  — 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank! 

A  dimmer  Renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside  — 

But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 
She  must  fight,  whatever  betide  — 

When  the  war  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died ' 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 


248  THE  DAY-FIGHT. 

The  enemy  turned  and  fled  — 

And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach, 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in  — 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  fight, 

Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  when  well  up  the  Bay, 

And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet, 
(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey,) 
Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 
There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun, 
And  ever  he  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower 

Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 
'T  was  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  249 

With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 

Our  glasses  around  we  aim  — 
What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 

Our  Philippi,  —  aground  and  in  flame ! 

Below,  't  was  still  all  a-roar, 

As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  fort  had  slacked, 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been)  — 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead, 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 

A  league  from  the  Fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag; 

When  lo  !    looking  down  the  Bay, 
There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag  — 


250  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

The  Ram  is  again  under  way, 
And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag! 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 
Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away  — 
How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  win, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in 
Under  full  head  of  steam  — 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work, 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag!) 
The  Lacka wanna  hit  fair, 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork, 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  251 

High  in  the  mizzen  shroud 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'envhelm), 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud, 

"  Hard-a-starboard  your  helm ! 
Starboard !    and  run  him  down !  " 

Starboard  it  was  —  and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 


We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 

In  battle  and  stormy  weather  — 
Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 
When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 

The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 
Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 
Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 


252  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

(You  hardly  had  known  him  no\v,  — 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes !) 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel ! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 

A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us, 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 

And  a  voice  yelled  :  "  Hard-a-port ! 
Hard-a-port !  —  here  's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us !  " 

He  cheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul ; 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl  — 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun; 
But  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside !) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder  tones, 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide, 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones ! 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  253 

Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 
The  great  Lackawanna  came  down, 

Full  tilt,  for  another  blow ; 

We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed  —  but,  for  all  our  pains, 

Rammed  the  old  Hartford  instead, 
Just  for'ard  the  mizzen-chains ! 

Ah  !  how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 

And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 
As  she  took  us  right  on  end ! 

(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel, 

She  was  under  full  steam)  — 
With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 
Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 

Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay  — 
(Rib  and  plankshear  gave  way 


254  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge 
Here,  after  all,  we  go  — 
The  old  ship  is  gone !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then  —  at  him  again  ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long ; 
He  '11  never  again  see  land  — 
Try  that  on  /«';//,  Marchand ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 
Full  on  his  beam  we  bore ; 
But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 
Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, 
He  vomited  flame  no  more. 

By  this  he  had  found  it  hot  — 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  Thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot, 


THE  BAY-FIGHT.  255 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow  — 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose ; 

Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold  — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem  ? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland  — 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight! 

Can  he  strike  ?     By  heaven,  't  is  true ! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White ! 

Up  went  the  White !     Ah  then 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  agen, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men 
All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight ! 


256  THE  BAY-FIGHT. 

Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

Answered  as  best  they  might  — 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right! 

HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 


SHERIDAN'S    RIDE. 

Oct.   IQ,  General  Early  surprised  and  routed  the  Union  troops 

1864.  during  General  Sheridan's  absence  in  Washington. 

Sheridan  hastened  to  the  front,  rallied  his  men,  and 
won  a  complete  victory. 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 
17  25? 


258  SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need ; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth ; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 


SHERIDAN'S  RIDE.  259 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  fire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  ire. 

But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops, 

What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him  both, 

Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust,  the  black  charger  was  gray 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day ! " 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 


260  SHERIDAN'S  RIDE, 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general's  name 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away !  " 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


SHERMAN'S    MARCH    TO    THE    SEA. 

May   4,  After  Sherman  left  Tennessee  in  May,  to  the  taking  of 

1864.  Atlanta  September  .?£/,  there  was  hardly  a  day  inith- 

Dec.   21,  out  its  battle ;  after  he  left  Atlanta  he  marched  to  the 

1 864.  sea  and  took  Savannah  ;  then  he  went  to  Columbia  and 

the  backbone  of  the  Rebellion  was  broken.     The  poet 

•wrote  this  -while  a  prisoner  at  Columbia;  and  when 

Sherman  arrived  there  and  read  it,  he  attached  Adjt. 

Byers  to  his  staff. 

OUR  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 
That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
As  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning, 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe ; 
When  a  rider  came  out  of  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted,  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready ! 
For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  sea ! " 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men ; 
261 


262        SHERMAN'S  MARCH   TO    THE  SEA. 

For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 
More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 

And  that  blessings  from  Northland  would  greet  us, 
When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Then  forward,  boys  !    forward  to  battle  ! 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
We  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca  — 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free ; 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard 

And  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor-flag  falls; 
We  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree, 
Yet  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel, 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH   TO    THE  SEA.        263 

Oh,  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 

That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 
When  Sherman  said,  "  Boys,  you  are  weary, 

But  to-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours ! " 
Then  sang  we  the  song  of  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

SAMUEL  H.  M.  BYERS. 


A 


THE    SONG    OF    SHERMAN'S    ARMY. 

Nov.    12,  The  march  from  Atlanta   to  Savannah  was  a  joyous 

1864.  frolic  in  comparison  -with  the  hard  work  and  hard 

Dec.    2 1  fighting  before  and  after  it. 

1864.  ' 

PILLAR  of  fire  by  night, 

A  pillar  of  smoke  by  day, 
Some  hours  of  march  —  then  a  halt  to  fight, 

And  so  we  hold  our  way; 
Some  hours  of  march  —  then  a  halt  to  fight, 
As  on  we  hold  our  way. 

Over  mountain  and  plain  and  stream, 

To  some  bright  Atlantic  bay, 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 

We  hold  our  festal  way ; 
With  our  arms  aflash  in  the  morning  beam, 
We  hold  our  checkless  way ! 

There  is  terror  wherever  we  come, 
There  is  terror  and  wild  dismay 
264 


THE  SONG   OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY.        265 

When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the  drum 

Announce  us  on  the  way; 

When  they  see  the  Old  Flag  and  hear  the  drum 
Beating  time  to  our  onward  way. 

Never  unlimber  a  gun 

For  those  villainous  lines  in  gray, 
Draw  sabers  !    and  at  'em  upon  the  run  ! 

'T  is  thus  we  clear  our  way ; 
Draw  sabers,  and  soon  you  will  see  them  run, 
As  we  hold  our  conquering  way. 

The  loyal,  who  long  have  been  dumb, 

Are  loud  in  their  cheers  to-day; 
And  the  old  men  out  on  their  crutches  come, 

To  see  us  hold  our  way ; 
And  the  old  men  out  on  their  crutches  come, 
To  bless  us  on  our  way. 

Around  us  in  rear  and  flanks, 
Their  futile  squadrons  play, 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  steady  ranks, 


265        THE  SONG   OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY. 

We  hold  our  checkless  way; 
With  a  sixty-mile  front  of  serried  ranks, 
Our  banner  clears  the  way. 

Hear  the  spattering  fire  that  starts 

From  the  woods  and  copses  gray, 
There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  quicken  our  hearts 

As  we  frolic  along  the  way  ! 
There  is  just  enough  fighting  to  warm  our  hearts, 
As  we  rattle  along  the  way. 

Upon  different  roads,  abreast, 

The  heads  of  our  columns  gay, 
With  fluttering  flags,  all  forward  pressed, 
Hold  on  their  conquering  way ; 
With  fluttering  flags  to  victory  pressed, 
We  hold  our  glorious  way. 

Ah,  traitors !    who  bragged  so  bold 

In  the  sad  war's  early  day, 
Did  nothing  predict  you  should  ever  behold 
The  Old  Flag  come  this  way? 


THE  SONG   OF  SHERMAN'S  ARMY.        267 

Did  nothing  predict  you  should  yet  behold 
Our  banner  come  back  this  way  ? 

By  heaven !  't  is  a  gala  march, 

'T  is  a  pic-nic  or  a  play ; 
Of  all  our  long  war  't  is  the  crowning  arch, 

Hip,  hip  !    for  Sherman's  way  ! 
Of  all  our  long  war  this  crowns  the  arch  — 
For  Sherman  and  Grant,  hurrah  ! 

CHARLES  G.  HALPINE. 


O    CAPTAIN!     MY  CAPTAIN! 

April  15,  Abraham   Lincoln  was  killed  by  John   Wilkes  Booth, 

1 86 1-  almost  exactly  four  years  after  the  first  shot  was 

fired  at  Fort  Sumter. 

0  CAPTAIN !  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done; 
The    ship    has   weather'd    every   rack,    the    prize 
we  sought  is  won ; 
The    port    is    near,    the    bells    I   hear,    the    people    all 

exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring : 

But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise    up  —  for   you   the   flag    is    flung  —  for    you    the 

bugle  trills; 

268 


O   CAPTAIN !   MY  CAPTAIN !  269 

For  you  bouquets   and   ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding; 

For  you  they  call,  the   swaying  mass,  their   eager   faces 
turning ; 

Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head; 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You  've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he   has   no  pulse  nor 

will : 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done; 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship,  comes  in  with  object 
won : 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

April  15,  This  is  a  fragment  of  the  noble  Commemoration  Ode  de- 

1865.  livered  at  Harvard  College  to  the  memory  of  those  of 

its  students  who  fell  in  the  war  which  kept  the  coun 
try  whole. 

SUCH  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 
Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote : 

For  him  her  Old  World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  271 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 

That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 


272  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mormvard  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he  : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes; 

These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  273 

The  kindly- earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


18 


THE  BLUE   AND   THE    GRAY. 

1867.  The  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  had  shown  them 

selves  impartial  in  the  offerings  made  to  the  memory 
of  the  dead.  They  strewed  flowers  alike  on  the 
graves  of  the  Confederate  and  of  the  National 
soldiers. 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 
Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  on  the  ranks  of  the  dead; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ; 
274 


THE   BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY.  275 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 


276  THE  BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day  : 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won  ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 

They  banish  our  anger  for  ever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 


THE  BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY.  277 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue; 

Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH, 


THE    SHIP    OF    STATE. 

This  fragment  is  the  conclusion  of  the  Building  of  the 


T 


1876. 

HOU,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great  ! 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
WThat  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

278 


THE  SHIP  OF  STATE.  27 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee  ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


TABLE   OF   AUTHORS. 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey. 

Frederic ksburg,       .        .        .        .        .        .209 

Bartleson,  F.  A. 

New   Year's  Eve,  .         .         ,         ,         .231 

Beers,  Ethel  Lynn. 

The  Picket  Guard, 135 

Boker,  George  H. 

The  Black  Regiment,     .         .         .         .         .218 
Dirge  for  a  Soldier,        .         .         .         .         .203 

Brownell,  Henry  Howard. 

The  Bay  Fight,      .         .         .         .         .         .233 

The  River  Fight, 181 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

Song  of  Marion's  Men,  .        »        4        63 

281 


282  TABLE   OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Byers,  Samuel  H.  M. 

Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea,         .         ,         .       261 

Carey,  Phoebe. 

Ready,   .  153 

Carleton,  Will. 

The  Little  Black-eyed  Rebel,  .         .         .         .         53 

Collins,  William. 

Molly  Maguire  at  Monmouth,        .         ,         .         58 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. 

The  American  Flag,       .         .         .         .         .102 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Boston,  ........  i 

Hymn, 19 

English,  Thomas  Dunn. 

The  Battle  of  the  Cewpcns,    .         .         .         .         67 
The  Battle  of  New  Orleans,          ...         90 

Finch,  Francis  Miles. 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray,        .         .         .         .       274 
Nathan  Hale,         ......         46 

Freneau,  Philip. 

To   the   Memory  of  the  Americans  who  fell 

at  Eutaw, 80 


TABLE   OF  AUTHORS.  283 

PAGE 

Halpine,  Charles  G. 

Song  of  the  Soldiers, 159 

The  Song  of  Sherman's  Army,       .         .         .264 

Harte,  Bret. 

11  How  are  You,  Sanitary?"  .         .         .       157 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg,     .         .         .         .222 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno, 

Monterey, 108 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker- Hill  Battle,     .         25 
Old  Ironsides,         .         .         .         .         .         .106 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,          .         .         .        145 
Key,  Francis  Scott. 

The   Star  Spangled  Banner,  .         .         .         .         87 

Lanier,  Sidney. 

The  Battle  of  Lexington,        .         .         .         .         15 

Lathrop,   George  Parsons. 

Keenarfs  Charge,  .         .         .         .         .215 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride, 8 

The  Cumberland,            .         .         .         .         .168 
The  Ship  of  State, 278 


284  TABLE   OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  .         .  .  .  .270 

Jonathan  to  John,  .         .  .  .  .161 

The    Washers  of  the  Shroud,  .  .  .138 

McMaster,  Guy  Humphrey. 

The  Old  Continentals,    ...         .         .         43 

O'Hara,  Theodore. 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,     .         .         .         .       no 

Percival,  James  Gates. 

Perry's   Victory  on  Lake  Erie,         ...         83 

Pierpont,  John. 

Warren 's  Address,          .         .         „         .         .         41 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan. 

The  Brave  at  Home, 155 

Sheridan's  Ride, 257 

Realf,  Richard. 

Apocalypse,     .         .         .         .         .         .         .127 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. 

How  Old  John  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry,        116 
Kearny  at  Seven  Pines,  .         .         .         .        198 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry. 

Twilight  on  Sumter, 228 


TABLE   OF  AUTHORS.  285 

PAGE 

Taylor,  Bayard. 

Scott  and  the  Veteran,    .         .         ,         .  13 x 

Thompson,  John  R. 

Music  in  Camp,     .         .         .         .         .         .210 

Whitman,  Walt. 

O  Captain.'  My  Captain/  .         .         .       268 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 

Barbara  Frietchie,                            .         .         .       205 
At  Port  Royal, 14? 

Willson,  Forceythe. 

The  Old  Sergeant, 171 

Wilson,  V.  B. 

Ticonderoga,  .         .         .         .         .         .         •         21 

Winter,  William. 

After  All, 201 

Anonymous. 

Battle  of  Trenton,          .....         5° 


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